


The Fine Art of Swordbending

by mindbending



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Olympics, Fencing, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mutual Pining, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Secret Identities, Self-Esteem Issues, Sports, Zuko's Scar (Avatar), background bakoda, background hahn/yue, canon-typical abuse, there is a special place in my heart for sokka’s olympic enthusiasm, zuko is lying through his teeth except when he isn’t
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:41:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29367204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mindbending/pseuds/mindbending
Summary: Sokka’s ready for everything. He’s got his gear. He’s got his tickets. Nothing can shake him, the best-prepared spectator at the 2020 Olympic Games...Until he meets Lee, a young dancer with a strange knack for broadswords, and they fall into a game all their own.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Azula & Ozai & Zuko, Bato & Hakoda & Katara & Sokka (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 226
Kudos: 536
Collections: Zukka Big Bang





	1. en garde

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [6reeze](https://6reeze.tumblr.com/) for the Big Bang art, to Anna for the beta, and to [snoweytano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoweytano) for the fencing help. All mistakes that remain are my own.
> 
> This fic is set in a COVID-free alternate timeline where the 2020 Games actually happened in 2020. I took artistic license with the Olympic schedule and ticketing procedures.

_Faster. Higher. Stronger._

For years, Sokka’s prepared for the Olympics. He’s trained physically, increasing his speed and agility and stamina. He’s trained psychologically, sizing up every challenge in his way, plotting out his strategy with a chessmaster’s precision. He’s purchased an armory of name-brand equipment. He’s even experimented with performance-enhancing chemicals, because a carefully timed can of coffee from one of Tokyo’s vending machines can mean the difference between victory and humiliating surrender.

He’s going to be the best spectator at the entire 2020 Olympics.

Sokka’s assembled a clear stadium bag to get him through security easily, and he’s bought _all_ the official goodies, even the little plushie mascots (no, Katara, they’re not stuffed animals, and yes, it’s a good idea to spend $100 on what are definitely two stuffed animals, once you consider the projected resale value a couple decades down the line). He’s laid out his schedule, ranking each event by priority, crafting an intricate 24/7 plan with viewing times and estimates with confidence intervals for each line’s wait-times. 

Sokka plans to follow most of the action from his computer, but he’ll make it to a few live events, come hell or high water. He’s bought high-end binoculars and staked out the best spots to watch long-distance boating events for free. Via luck and actual money, he’s also gotten a seat at the Olympic men’s walking final.

(Which is maybe not the most sporty-sounding of all the sports. Still, it’s an official Olympic event, requiring years of practice and elimination rounds and medals, and Sokka intends to enjoy himself to the fullest.)

Most importantly, he’s got tickets to women’s springboard diving, a.k.a. _his little sister’s Olympic debut._

Sokka could stay awake the whole two weeks and never get tired.

/

By the time Sokka finishes his second day, he’s dead.

He watched the opening ceremony with a crowd at a bar and came back to his apartment at 2am, fizzing over with adrenaline and the spirit of international togetherness. Unfortunately, said fizzing sensation refused to die until 4am, and so he ended up getting a solid four and a half hours of sleep before the alarm woke him up, just in time for a heart-pumping, nail-biting game of softball, which left him so wide awake that he had no choice but to text Katara about getting that special brother-of-the-VIP tour of the Olympic Village. Which led naturally to Katara guiding him around the Village, pointing out athletic celebrities, yanking him away before he could weave through the obstacle-course crowds and fanboy at his favorites.

(“But Katara, she’s the judo champion, I gotta-”

“You were going to ask Toph Beifong. Blind Paralympian. For her _autograph.”_

“...Maybe just a selfie?”

“Sokka, I am begging you to stop.”)

They couldn’t make it more than five minutes without spotting a reigning champion or world-record-holder, and Sokka took pictures of _everything,_ and he swears the Big Mac he got at the Village McDonald’s really was the best he’s ever had. After that Katara kicked him out so she could go train, and he wandered around the giant parties that Tokyo’s putting on for regular people and met a bunch of fellow sports fans from four different continents and gave out recommendations for some great local restaurants that could use the support, and then he checked his schedule and caught up on the highlights from women’s soccer and-

Yeah, Sokka’s dead now. 

As he lies on his bed, his two little plushies tucked in each elbow, he feels weirdly tired and hollow. Hopefully coffee can patch him up in time for tomorrow.

/

“But what is the point of having a brother _who lives in Tokyo_ if you won’t meet up with me?”

“I know you were looking forward to this-”

“I had meats on sticks! And fresh-baked fish cookies with beans inside!”

“...And as wonderful as those sound, don’t you think we could go _after_ the Olympics? I’m sticking around anyway, we’ll have plenty of time to hang out.”

Sokka sighs, closing his eyes. “I knew Coach Pakku was strict, but is he really banning _all fun_ at the _Olympics?”_

There’s an ominous silence.

“Katara?”

“Uh,” she admits, “technically it’s not Pakku’s fault.”

“Then who screwed up my schedule?” demands Sokka.

“Uh...a guy named Aang?”

“Who?”

_“Heskindamyboyfriendnow?”_

Sokka wonders for a moment if he’s hallucinating due to sleep deprivation. But no, he did a risk assessment on his grueling schedule and there’s no chance of hallucinations until next week at the earliest.

“What?” he says.

There’s an audible inhale on the other side of the line. “Aang Gyatso, Team USA? He’s the favorite to win trampoline, he’s got the world-record for-”

“Katara!”

“...So we met a couple days ago and he asked me to go out with him.”

“Go out where.”

“To a tempura place in Asakusa?”

Sokka sputters. _“I_ was going to take you for tempura in Asakusa!”

“I know,” comes her plaintive response, “but he’s so sweet, and he’s vegetarian so he’ll let me keep all his seafood, and he’s going home right after the Olympics which means we only have two weeks together, so please, Sokka-”

Sokka admits, privately, that there’s a certain allure to the whirlwind love story she’s got going on here. Two lovers, brought together by a grand show of international unity, stealing their moments of romance until country lines once again tear them apart...

Out loud, he says, “Is he older than you?”

“No, younger.”

The grizzled gymnast of Sokka’s nightmares gets replaced by a twelve-year-old kid.

“Still, I’ve heard stories about the Village. All you gorgeous Olympic athletes confined in a small space-”

“Ew, Sokka!”

“I’m just saying-”

“I’m going out with Aang for dinner. That’s _it.”_

Sokka’s not convinced, but he’s performed his duty as a protective big brother and he doesn’t _really_ want any further details. So he teases her just a little more (“Is he nice? Does he have a _bouncy_ personality?”) and hangs up. Then, he takes this unexpected break as a chance to update his schedule.

There’s a lot of updates.

First off, he’d blocked out an awful lot of time to hang out with Katara around Tokyo. He’d labeled every night after her first competition with her name, because he has to be available with a hug and a box of cutlets from the nearest convenience store, freshly fried for optimum comfort, just in case of disaster. Apparently, his services are rendered unnecessary by her new Olympian boyfriend.

(How does she have a boyfriend before Sokka does?)

(He looks Aang up on Wikipedia and takes in that megawatt smile. He’s 99% sure he was right about the “bouncy personality” thing.)

Second, the Olympics have barely begun and Sokka’s ragged around the edges. That means he has to cut some of the sports from his schedule, or he’ll burn out before his time. With a sigh of self-pity, he redoes his rankings and decides which sports to jettison. Good-bye, table tennis, it was nice knowing you. With a sigh he lets himself keep the first fencing competition- a women’s team competition using the weighty _epée_ blade- and cuts the eleven other fencing disciplines that’ll follow it. They join a handful of other sports that he’d never even attempted to follow.

(Sports like pentathlon and decathlon, which both have far too many sub-sports wrapped up inside them. Even Sokka’s brain has its limits).

Third, he promised himself he’d catch up on soccer tonight, and now he’s got more time because Katara’s cancelled, yet he can’t bring himself to start the video. He’s not a bitter person by nature- nitpicky and prone to whiny cynicism, but never _bitter-_ and it’s probably just the sleep deprivation dragging him down. Still there’s been something _strange_ about wandering amidst all the crowds. The happy couples. The Olympic athletes.

Something unspeakably lonely.

Sokka frowns down at the calendar app that suddenly glows too bright, then shuts it off and abandons the schedule just for tonight.

/

Sokka doesn’t like this feeling. All his Olympic energy’s disappeared, and the sudden void’s left him drifting. If he wants it to stop, he’ll need a plan.

Step 1: Change out of all his rainbow-ringed Olympic gear.

Step 2: Trade the stadium tote for his usual gym bag.

Step 3: Take the subway to the outskirts of town.

Far from the sleek city center, there’s a gym tucked down a narrow side street, with a mess of wires tangling overhead. As Sokka gets off the train and weaves through the crowd and ducks under the dim black-and-white sign, he feels calmer than he has since Katara landed and the games shifted from a mirage in the distance to an actual thing _happening right now._

This gym might just be his favorite spot in Tokyo.

It’s an eccentric establishment- open at the oddest hours, with classes during the day and free spaces for practice open late into the evening. Some serious athletes train here, but it’s relaxed all the same. The air always smells comfortably familiar, a little stale and worn, with a hint of the boss’s favorite lemon soap. On some nights, the boss- Piandao, a thoroughly-retired swordsman who’s long since left his Olympic days behind- blasts heavy metal, which in Sokka’s opinion makes all work-outs ten times cooler.

But tonight, as Sokka steps inside and takes a deep citrusy breath, he’s thankful to hear nothing but quiet chatter and the odd grunt of exertion. He throws a quick wave to Fat by the door and makes a beeline for the historical weapons display. There’s a new array of _shuriken_ , little star-shaped throwing knives that are unfortunately extra-dull due to newly discovered liability issues (thanks, _Jet)._ There’s also a fancy replica of an old-fashioned _jian,_ a gorgeous double-edged sword with a crimson tassel dangling off the end. Sokka picks it up and finds that it too is dull and made largely of unrealistically light plastic, probably _also_ because of liability issues. With a sigh, he retreats to an empty mat and starts running through a sequence of serene _tai chi_ exercises...

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots a woman.

She’s browsing the standard weapons, rifling through the whole collection like she’s not sure what she’ll find. Lingering too long in one pose, Sokka sneaks a longer look. She’s young, with a brown bob and killer crimson lipstick, and Sokka definitely hasn’t seen her around before. She’s from out of town, he realizes. A fellow sports enthusiast seeking respite from the bustle of the Olympics in Sokka’s gym. Piandao had mentioned that the gym would temporarily be open to aspiring sportsmen from around the world, in the spirit of international cooperation.

In a rush, Sokka regains all his lost enthusiasm, because this is _his_ territory, and as the girl picks out plastic _nunchaku_ and starts flipping it around she looks awfully confused, and it’d be wrong of him if he didn’t show her the utmost hospitality.

He bounds over to her, makes a snap judgment, and starts chattering away in heavily-accented-but-syntactically-perfect Japanese: “Hello, welcome to our gym.” She looks at him with surprise but not confusion, so he figures the Japanese was the right call and continues, “Sorry to bother you, but I noticed that the _nunchaku_ are giving you the slightest trouble. It’s wonderful to have you visiting our gym, and I would be happy to explain to you how they’re used!”

He ends with a bright smile. Her expression slides from confusion to a smile of her own, but there’s something _off_ about it.

“Actually,” she replies, “I’m just checking how the plastic changes the motion.”

“Oh,” Sokka says slowly. “Do you already know how these work?”

“Mm-hmm.” Her smile gets even sweeter. “I’m representing Japan in karate this year.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Her eyes take on a mischievous glint.

“...Good luck in the Games!”

Like any sensible man facing a karate expert, Sokka runs. Once he gets far enough away that he can’t hear her chuckling, he looks up Team Japan’s _karateka_ and, yep, that’s Suki Shima, who’s sparring for Japan in the Olympics.

The weird loneliness-insecurity-combo kicks him again. He forces himself to put down the phone and return to his _tai chi,_ now with _extra emphasis_ on all the calming breaths.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots another stranger by the historical weapons display.

Sokka scoffs at himself. He takes a couple deep breaths and then flows like water through a few more poses. He’s unbothered. Unruffled. Immune to distractions.

But the guy’s still there, peering at something Sokka hadn’t noticed- a new pair of _dao_ swords. He takes them out of the scabbard and swings them around for a second, visibly hesitant. Sokka orders himself to leave him alone.

But the Olympics are about connection, aren’t they? About making friends in the unlikeliest places? 

Also, what are the chances he’ll embarrass himself in front of _two_ random Olympians in the same hour?

“Good evening,” he says, opting for Japanese once more.

The guy nearly drops the swords. He doesn’t, simply replying in thoroughly American-sounding English. “Uh, hi there?”

“Oh,” Sokka says, switching back easily. “Sorry about that. And for bothering you.”

“It’s okay, can I help you?”

Sokka gapes for a second, because first of all that’s definitely _his_ line. Second, this guy’s not just a mysterious stranger, he’s a _good-looking_ mysterious stranger. Warm brown eyes with flecks of gold. Glimmering ink-black hair, swinging from a high ponytail. Frankly enviable muscles.

Third, the left half of his face looks like it’s been blown off by shrapnel.

Sokka’s not one to stare- he can hear Dad like it’s yesterday, saying _yes, that’s from the war,_ and _no, please don’t ask my new boyfriend how he got it-_ but his brain makes a couple deductions before he can stop it. The stranger’s left eye doesn’t open quite as wide as the right. That means it’s a contracture scar like Bato’s, probably also from a severe burn. It’s a faded pink with light lines running through it, almost the same color as his ordinary skin if you stand far enough away. That means it’s an old wound.

Even though he’s a young guy.

“I was wondering,” Sokka says, determined not to let any of those observations creep up and show in his behavior, “if you needed help with those swords. I can tell you more about them, show you a couple moves?”

The guy reacts with confusion, but it looks like genuine bewilderment at unexpected kindness, not Suki Shima’s- justified- stare of judgment.

“Uh,” he says after a second. “Yeah, actually, that’d help. I’ve never tried this before.”

He thrusts them out, offering Sokka the hilts. Their hands brush as Sokka takes the swords from him.

Then, Sokka backs up onto a mat, stepping into a pool of light so his pupil gets a better view. “So first off, this is how you grip the hilt. You always want a proper grip.”

“More stability,” his guest offers, “plus less chance of injury.”

“Exactly,” Sokka says with an encouraging smile. “The next thing to know is that these swords are just partners in the same dance. Think of them as the same weapon. They flow together.”

He whips them around, hoping he looks half as cool as he feels. A smile whips across the stranger’s face, so fast Sokka might’ve imagined it.

“Beyond that, get creative. Offense, defense, the sky’s the limit. Throw in some fancy footwork-” Sokka spins around in demonstration- “if the mood strikes.”

He passes them back. The mystery man takes them and adjusts his grip.

“Is this right?”

“Whoa.” Sokka grins, doing his best to encourage his new Padawan. “Nailed it on the first try.”

He steps onto the mat. Immediately, Sokka takes a healthy step back, out of accidental stabbing range, but maybe he needn’t have worried.

After a few experimental flicks of the wrist, his student lunges forward, both hands working in synchrony. There’s a gorgeous symmetry to all his movements, almost like they’ve been choreographed by an expert.

“Wow,” Sokka says, “you sure you haven’t used broadswords before?”

He shakes his head. “Never. We have some at home above the fireplace, but they’re just decorative.” 

Then, the mystery man lifts the left sword and slices through the air. It emits a piercing whistle, the sign of a perfectly angled strike. 

Sokka’s eyes widen. “Anything _like_ a broadsword?”

He frowns down at the swords for a second. “Closest I got was high school. I had this one phase where I thought I could handle a sabre.”

Sokka nods in understanding. “That’s useful. If you learned to slash with a sabre, I bet that’d help with _dao-”_

“I didn’t learn anything,” he interrupts with a snort. “I never had the speed for sabre. Didn’t last a year.”

“Oh.” Sokka’s face falls. “Still, if you’ve got a little sparring experience, I’d be down for a friendly bout.”

He freezes. “I...probably shouldn’t. It might not be safe.”

Sokka shrugs. “Your call. But if you’re worried about injuries, there’s foam swords.”

(Sokka may play with knives in his spare time, but he’s always _careful_ about it.)

“Plus,” he adds, “I promise I’ll be gentle.”

The guy’s eyes flick up to meet Sokka’s, and he bites his lip, considering. “You sure it’s okay? You don’t have to stop what you were doing for me-”

“Dude, you underestimate how much fun it is to introduce people to swords.”

“...Let’s try it.”

Sokka roots through the cabinet where Piandao keeps equipment for the children’s classes. It’s a long and dangerous quest through several suspicious-smelling boxes, but eventually he finds two vaguely dao-shaped pieces of foam- one mildly cracked from use, the other still in mint condition. He keeps the sketchy one for himself and hands over the new sword.

“By the way,” he says, “my name’s Sokka.”

“Oh. Um. Call me Lee.” 

Sokka beams at him. “Okay, Lee! So I don’t know if you remember this from your sabre days- and technically this is more of a European fencing thing- but in a duel? First one person says, _‘en garde.’”_

Lee snaps into a classic en-garde opening pose, knees bent. His right foot’s forward, and his sword’s up, gripped in his right hand. A second later, Sokka drops into the same stance.

“And then you say, _allez.”_

Sokka barely finishes the word before Lee lunges, driving his swordpoint right into Sokka’s chest, to the left of his sternum. Then he recoils, good eye going wide.

“Sorry,” he stammers, “there’s usually three words, and we didn’t say what the target area was, my bad-”

“No worries!” Sokka says brightly. “You’re so right, I forgot there were three words. Let’s say the first person to get their blade on the other person’s body wins?”

“Anywhere on the body?”

“Sure.”

Lee’s gaze slides slowly down Sokka, with a brief glint of _hunger._ But then it flicks back up, cool and calm, and he nods. “Got it.”

“Awesome.” Sokka slides into his opening stance. _“En garde. Allez. Pret!”_

For an instant, Lee’s brow furrows in confusion, and _Sokka_ charges. Not too fast, he has no intention of intimidating his newfound pupil. It occurs to him that he should be setting a good example for Lee, and keeping his feet further apart for proper balance. Still, it should be fine for a first- second- round, and they can have a little chat about footwork after this…

Lee leans like he’s about to step to his left. Then he thrusts his blade out of nowhere from the right, the foam lightly grazing Sokka’s cheek.

Sokka’s mouth falls open.

“Wow.” He finally recovers, blinking a little. “There’s really nothing like beginner’s luck.”

Shyly, Lee rubs the back of his neck with one hand. “This probably isn’t your idea of a fun night.”

“Are you kidding me? Let’s go again!”

/

It takes five rounds, but finally, _finally,_ Sokka lands a hit. Lee drops his guard, and Sokka sneaks right through the hole in his defenses to jab him in the chest and send him stumbling back. He lets out a loud whoop of joy that echoes around the now nearly empty gym.

“Uh,” Lee says.

“What?” Sokka frowns. “Wait, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“No, it’s just that I got you first on your hip. Or I thought I did.”

“...And that’s why you quit defending.”

“No,” Lee says. “I mean, yes, but maybe I imagined it. You can have the point!”

Laughing breathlessly, Sokka takes a moment to collapse dramatically on the floor and evaluate the night so far. Lee has thoroughly, inarguably destroyed him, with such grace and kindness that Sokka can’t even feel bad for himself. Hell, Sokka feels bad for _Lee,_ who feels compelled to apologize every other time he wins a point.

(He’s impossibly delicate about it. It’s no wonder Sokka didn’t even notice the last time he lost- _dao_ broadswords are meant for slashing, yet Lee’s attacks land like featherlight pinpricks, the point of his sword barely brushing Sokka’s skin.)

“You have really good reflexes,” Sokka comments. “But I bet you hear that a lot.”

“Not really. Pretty much never.”

Wow.

Lee, despite having never picked up a broadsword before, is better at this than Sokka is. The obvious next question is _why-_ what aspects of his technique let him reign supreme? He seems like a solid tactician, noticing the gaps in Sokka’s defenses and immediately striking, and his feints are convincing enough to fool him. Though the arm motions are jerky and a little awkward, like he really is just a beginner, Lee always parries Sokka’s strikes successfully and occasionally lands a lethal counterattack. Throughout it all he switches seamlessly between offense and defense, between charging and stepping away, and that’s the real magic, isn’t it? His footwork is magical, intricate, with carefully placed steps that seem impossibly elegant...

“I know why you’re so good at this,” Sokka exclaims, propping himself up on his elbows.

Lee, who had been blithely twirling his foam sword around, freezes mid-spin.

“You’re a dancer, aren’t you?”

His good eye goes big and round. “Yeah. Yeah, in college I minored in dance.”

“Buddy, that is _so_ cool.”

“Dabbled in stage combat, too,” he adds tentatively. “That’s the dream job right there.”

“You know,” Sokka says thoughtfully, gazing up at him, “if you put in the time and you really keep working at it? I could see you being famous for-” he waves vaguely around them- “sword stuff one day.”

Lee grants him the world’s softest smirk.

“I really appreciate that...buddy.”

/

Emerging from his office, Piandao kicks them out a couple minutes after that.

But he adds, “You two can come back tomorrow if you want.”

“Yeah, I’m showing him his way around a _dao,”_ Sokka says. “Just some basics, but we can try something more advanced tomorrow.” He glances at Lee. “You’re already awesome for a beginner.”

Piandao gives them both a weird look, but it slips away before Sokka can parse it.

“...I shouldn’t even be here _tonight,”_ Lee says apologetically. “I sort of messed up my schedule.”

“Oh,” Sokka replies, careful not to let his smile falter; he’s in no position to judge anyone for protecting their schedule. “Well, for the record, I’ll let you wreck me anytime you want.”

Now Piandao’s eyebrows shoot up, though Sokka can’t imagine why.

“I’m-” Lee starts to say “sorry,” but he catches himself- “glad I ran into you.”

Awkwardly, he sticks out his hand. Sokka tilts his head in confusion before realizing he’s offering a handshake. With a smile he grips Lee’s hand firmly, overwhelmed by sudden warmth.

/

Sokka tries to untangle his feelings on the way home. He feels warm, head to toe, and cozy and uplifted and hopeful. This must be what everyone talks about- the grandeur of the Olympic spirit, where sportsmanship brings people together across national lines.

Still, there’s something like melancholy tugging at him, far below.


	2. pret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day <3

The next morning, Sokka apologizes to his schedule for the disrespect he’s shown it and re-swears fealty. He sticks to it zealously until Sunday morning, when he wakes up an hour _before_ his alarm, bubbling over with excitement. He spends that hour on face paint. He’d meant to just do three stripes- red, white, red, like the Canadian flag- but now he’s got time to throw the maple leaf in too.

(It takes three tries, because the first time the leaf looks like a blob and the second it comes out looking like pot. Nobody needs to know about that. Never ever.)

Then he gets inside the aquatics centre, and there’s nothing but magic.

Sokka’s been saying it since Katara was five- she must be magic, to dive the way she does. It’s the synchro final today, so she’s diving together with Yue- already a two-time medalist, though looking at them now Sokka would never guess which of them was the Olympic expert. Every round, they move with superhuman elegance, bodies arcing high into the air, flipping and twisting at precisely the same time. At last they fall three meters down, smoothly slipping into the water with the barest, quietest splash.

Magic. Seriously.

Dad has to tell Sokka to stop screaming three rounds in or he’ll lose his voice. He complies, but it’s difficult as the 8.5s and 9s keep piling up. Sokka’s known, he’s run the numbers, he’s been theoretically, intellectually aware that Team Canada’s in serious medal contention this year. But it hasn’t seemed _real_ until now.

Until there’s a pool’s worth of water streaking down his cheeks, making an even bigger mess of his face paint, and he’s completely wrecking his vocal cords and making a general spectacle of himself on international TV, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“Sokka,” Katara clucks at him that night, while buying a _third_ hot can of tea from a vending machine. “I cannot believe you lost your voice cheering.”

As a retort, Sokka silently grabs the medal on her chest and dangles it in front of her face, and her scolding frown melts away to a smile. The silver glimmers, catching the moonlight.

/

They do not stay up all night. Dad sends Katara back to the dorm at a reasonable hour, and only raises an eyebrow when she complies without protest.

“‘Cause she’s gotta victory-smooch her boyfriend.”

_“Sokka!”_

“Hey,” Sokka adds in the loudest whisper he can manage, “you have to marry him, because then I’ll _finally_ have a competitive blanket-toss team-”

“I have a medal and I _am_ willing to strangle you with it-”

“Okay, you two,” Dad interrupts, shaking his head and chuckling. “Katara, go back, get some sleep...and be safe.”

_“Dad!”_

Sokka pulls her in for an extra-warm good-bye hug. Dad does the same and plants a kiss on her forehead too.

He murmurs, “She’d be so proud of you.”

They let go of her at long last. Then Sokka obediently sips his tea as Dad calls Bato, who takes one look at the shadows under his eyes and says, “You need sleep.”

“Afraid I can’t,” Dad replies breezily. “You wouldn’t be able to sleep either, if you knew what an awesome job your daughter did. But you don’t, because it’s still _Saturday_ where you are!”

Sokka laughs supportively at the attempted joke. He can’t see the screen, but Bato probably rolls his eyes as he retorts, “You _really_ need sleep.”

A few minutes later, Bato does successfully send Dad off to bed. Sokka- still joyous, still floating- wafts down to the gym, because it’s a miraculous day when anything can happen.

By the time he gets there, Piandao’s already closed up for the night. Lee’s nowhere to be found.

/

Despite the disappointment- and why is he disappointed, Lee _said_ he didn’t have time for random sparring sessions- Sokka stays up until three, watching replays of the diving event from multiple countries and painstakingly translating the commentary. 

(Katara says she doesn’t need to hear all the totally-justified praise heaped upon her. Katara is too humble for her own good, and Sokka will gladly do the hard work of enlarging her ego.) 

It’s okay not to sleep; he accounted for it in his master schedule. He’s got a relaxing day planned. Just him and his binoculars, riding out to Enoshima to catch some Laser Radial-class sailing- and how cool of a name is that, _Laser Radial._ He doesn’t have a ticket. Thus, the binoculars.

(There’s a group of other fans camped out nearby, but they only seem to speak German. Or maybe it’s Dutch. Sokka gives up on making conversation and retreats to his solo spot, feeling lonelier than he has any right to.)

On the train ride back, he tries weighing the pros and cons of tuning into the men’s team foil fencing finals. Sleep deprivation makes the decision for him, and he dozes off mid-deliberation.

Even when he arrives back in Tokyo, he’s still stuck in that post-nap stage where he feels slightly disembodied, and it takes getting lost in Shinjuku Station a couple times to properly wake up. But once he’s back to full awareness, he’s got a hankering for some swordplay, and not just the sort on a screen. He heads straight to Piandao’s gym, perfectly ready to bug Fat into a sparring session. 

He finds Lee instead.

Lee’s training with the twin _dao,_ keeping to himself in the corner of the gym. There’s a row of human-shaped dummies available for target practice, but instead he’s picked out a tennis ball and tied it to a string. It dangles from one of the dedicated hooks on the ceiling.

When Sokka gets closer, he realizes there’s actually a second ball hanging about one foot away. It’s black and made of rubber. More importantly, it’s _tiny._

And yet, wielding his two swords, Lee hits both balls time and time again, catching them even though they’re swinging wildly from his past strikes.

“Dude.”

Lee pauses. Turns around a second later. “Sokka?”

“How are you even real?”

Lee shrugs. “It’s not that impressive.”

Sokka’s eyes bulge. “What’s ‘impressive,’ in your book?”

“I bet my sister could do this blindfolded.”

“Uh. Okay, then. Still-“ he gestures at the balls- “your bladework’s gorgeous.”

Lee opens his mouth as if to disagree, but Sokka raises one eyebrow, just daring him to try it. Cleverly he switches tactics. “How’ve you been?”

“Amazing. How ‘bout you?”

“Today sucked, but no worse than I expected.” He lets out a weighty sigh. “Do you want to spar again?”

“Yeah!” Sokka says. “Fair warning, I’m going to be extra-easy to beat, I’ve slept about ten hours in the last two days.”

Lee- who had been untying the poor balls from their strings- looks back at him sharply. “Why, what happened?”

A dopey chuckle works its way up Sokka’s throat. “My sister won a silver medal yesterday.”

Lee’s face tumbles through a dizzying sequence of expressions. Finally, he says, “Your sister’s an Olympian too?”

“She sure is,” Sokka confirms with a grin. “Wait, is _your_ sister an Olympian? Is that why you’re here?”

Lee pauses again before snorting. “Yeah, actually. She’s entirely why I’m here.”

It sounds like there’s an irritated edge to the words, but Sokka chalks it up to his own sleep deprivation. “She’d better not be a diver, because then I’ll have to duel you for our sisters’ honor.”

“No-“ the weird hint of bitterness disappears, swapped for amusement- “she’s in modern pentathlon.”

Sokka screws up his forehead. “Women’s modern pentathlon…scheduled mainly for August 6th?”

His eyebrows- one normal, one wispy and weirdly angled- shoot up. “You’re a pentathlon fan?”

“Nope,” Sokka says, “just a generalized Olympics fan!” He winces as he realizes how dismissive that sounded, and he suddenly regrets not paying full attention to all the Olympic sports, sleep schedule be damned. “Not that pentathlon’s not cool, I mean, the versatility? Fencing _and_ riding _and_ swimming _and_ running around with firearms? I’d totally watch your sister live if I didn’t have tickets to the walking final at the same time. Um. Wish her luck from me?”

Lee hears him out with increasing bemusement. “She’d tell you she doesn’t need it, because she’s so obviously going to win.”

“Oh. Well-“ Sokka shoots finger guns at him, why does he shoot _finger guns_ at him- “confidence is half the game.”

“My congratulations to your sister,” Lee offers.

“Thanks, she’s the best. Literally now; silver’s basically the same as gold. Should I go get the...“ Temporarily failing at words, Sokka waves vaguely at the gym’s foam weapons. 

Fortunately, Lee understands. “You’re on.”

/

Sokka fetches the foam swords, says the magic words _(“en garde, allez, pret!”)_ and proceeds to lose in ten seconds flat. When Lee hits him- with another one of those soft pinpricks he favors over slashing cuts- Sokka staggers back, sways, and then crumples to the ground with all the melodrama he can muster.

When he squints one eye open, Lee’s looming over him with his arms crossed in disapproval. He’s scowling.

But then a smile tugs at the side of his lip, and he sits down beside Sokka, folding his legs under him and sitting on his heels in a classic _seiza_ pose.

“We can try some other weapon, if you want. I know it’s not fun playing a game you never win.”

“You think so?” Sokka rolls onto his side and props his head up on one hand, to address him more directly. “Every morning I’m at home, I challenge Katara to a swimming race. Katara’s my sister. You know, the Olympic diver.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’m silly, and hope springs eternal?”

Lee chuckles. Sokka considers wrangling his brain into submission to give him a serious answer, but he starts speaking first.

“If I challenged my sister to a swimming race, she’d laugh at me. I used to spar with her, though,” Lee adds thoughtfully, fussing with a dent in his sword’s foam. 

“Fencing?”

He nods. “My whole family’s into pentathlon. My father bought us both _epées_ when she was six, so she’d have a shot at 2020.”

“Um. Wow.” Sokka’s family’s enthusiastic about the Olympics, obviously, but Dad never pushed either of them into doing anything but their homework. He’s not sure whether Katara would’ve stuck with the sport when she was little, if she’d felt any pressure besides her own natural stubbornness. “That’s intense.”

“Trust me- if you met her, you’d get it.”

“So you learned fencing from your sister?” It’d explain a couple things, like how someone could manage to be so effortlessly skillful and unaware of it.

“Kind of.” Lee shrugs. “I only sparred with her before she got good enough for actual competition, so, uh, not recently.”

“Well,” Sokka says with a crooked grin, because he out-swam Katara one (1) time last year when she had a cold and he’ll milk it for all it’s worth, “if you ever won against her? You can officially say you beat an Olympian at their own game.”

Unfortunately, Lee only frowns back at him, confused. “I never beat her.”

Sokka tilts his head. “Not once?”

“No? I mean, I scored points, but never enough to win a bout. Though…” 

Trailing off, he screws up his forehead. Sokka waits for him to collect his thoughts.

“She’s also really talented with electronics,” Lee says, once he regains his voice. “And we’re lucky, Father got us a full competition setup to practice with, with the wires and the automatic scoring system? So I wonder if maybe she rigged the circuits somehow.”

“That’s really...” Sokka flounders for an appropriate adjective but can’t come up with one. He settles: “That’s rough, buddy.”

Then he pats Lee on the knee, because he hasn’t humiliated himself enough just yet.

“So,” Lee says. He sounds a little flustered- probably from the whole spilling-family-secrets thing. “I will really, really get it if you don’t want to spar with me anymore.”

Immediately, Sokka pushes himself back to his feet. “Come on, we’re going again.”

It’s worth losing in five seconds, for that brief flash of joy on Lee’s face.

/

Fingers crossed, Sokka shows up at the gym the next night.

(This is a capital crime, according to his schedule. He rationalizes it. He can rewatch the Olympics anytime, but these sparring sessions with Lee will slip through his fingertips all too soon.)

Lee’s not there, but it’s the Olympics and anything is possible. Sokka holds out hope.

He shows up about half an hour later, black hair tied up in a bun with wisps flying out. He’s breathless. There’s a subtle blush creeping down his neck.

Sokka wonders why he’s noticing that, and chalks it up to his special brand of Olympic over-attentiveness. He’s distracted from that train of thought by Fat, who comes up to him to nag him about returning that one book on _tai chi_ that he borrowed last week. Sokka- who has kept that book by his door for three days but consistently forgotten to take it with him- makes his apologies in earnest if badly pronounced Japanese. Fat accepts them with an eyeroll and a gruff warning about how he’ll have to be stricter, next time...

“You’re reading about _tai chi?”_ Lee asks, once they’re alone again. He’s kneeling on the ground, doing leg stretches.

(He can do a full split. Not. Fair.)

“Yeah, I’m always trying new things,” Sokka says, starting on some sensible stretches of his own. “Wait. You know Japanese?”

“Uh.”

“‘Cause I didn’t want to assume, but if you prefer Japanese I’m totally down for that, I’m always trying to get more practice in-“

“Sokka?”

“Yeah?”

“I, um. I can kind of speak Japanese, I just don’t.” He inhales with a grimace. “My dad’s side’s from here, which means I grew up hearing enough Japanese to realize how terrible mine is.”

“Oh. Right.” Sokka winces back at him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit a sensitive spot.”

“It’s fine,” he says wryly. “You could’ve asked if I know Mandarin, then we’d be in real trouble.”

“You know Mandarin?” Sokka chirps.

Then he strongly considers going over to the displays and looking for something sharp enough to impale himself, just a little.

“Don’t answer that. You so do not have to answer that.”

Lee gapes at him for a second before sighing. “It was my first language. I lost it right about when I lost my mother.”

“...Same.”

Lee looks up sharply.

“I mean, not exactly the same? But I was learning Inuktitut with my mom, and then she…” He exhales loudly, not unlike Lee a couple seconds back. “Yeah. It’s still on my to-study list, though.”

“That’s sweet.” 

“Inuktitut along with, you know, a hundred-and-fifty other things. It’s a very long list.”

Lee smiles up at him, sweet and sympathetic and oddly thoughtful. Sokka nearly says something else he’ll regret just to fill the silence, but he beats him to it.

“Can I add the hundred-and-fifty-first?”

/

Lee’s teaching him about swords.

Sokka is learning about swords from someone who learned about swords with a pentathlete, who will compete in the Olympics using, among other things, swords.

It’s not quite Katara-at-the-medal-ceremony levels of awesome, but Sokka’s mind is _blown._

“So at first glance,” Lee says, circling Sokka and inspecting his form from head to toe, “your height could be an advantage. You prefer an aggressive approach. Maybe it’s subconscious, but you’ve been gauging the distance between us, and placing yourself where your sword can hit me, but I can’t reach you as easily.”

“That’s not fair.” Sokka pouts.

“Life isn’t fair.” Lee completes a circle, coming back into Sokka’s field of vision. “Anyway, that’s a good thing. You’ve been intuitively getting in that sweet spot, but imagine you _do_ , and you go in for the kill? Maybe I can parry.”

“Maybe you _always_ parry.”

Lee throws him a slanted, roguish smirk. “Maybe I do. Which means what you _really_ need to focus on is...body language.”

Sokka’s eyebrows jump up.

“You already think about all _my_ body language.” Lee lifts his foam blade. “The way I’m holding my sword. The direction it’s pointing. The tension in my legs, my arms. The angle of my chest and hips. Maybe even my face, since we’re skipping masks.”

(Sokka is looking respectfully.)

“All that can tell you,” Lee elaborates, “what I’m going to do next. You’ve gotten way better at reading me over time.”

“I have?”

He nods. “But I’ve been reading you, too. So to attack and score? You need to surprise me. Change up your speed, or your angles. Feint. Keep me guessing.”

“You got it.”

Lee steps back. “I’ll stay defensive. If you want me, come and get me.”

Sokka grins at the challenge.

He fails. He varies his speed and his lines of attack. He throws all his creativity at the problem before him, but Lee watches him so closely, with such care that he never gets close enough. At the same time Lee’s being kinder than he has to be and staying true to his word, always parrying but never taking advantage after that. He simply ducks away and dances to another part of the mat, elusive. Forever out of reach.

Sokka never lands a touch, but Lee outright _laughs_ at his wildest maneuvers.

(“Usually I’d say not to throw your sword, but it definitely counts as a surprise.”)

At the end, Piandao kicks them out when they’re flushed and panting, and Lee tells him he’s improved. Sokka feels like he’s won a medal.

/

That night, he dreams of Lee’s body language.

/

“Hey, Sokka,” Katara says over the phone, “Aang’s freaking out about his routine, so we’re going for raindrop cakes after practice. Wanna come with us?”

Sokka nearly yelps _yes, yes, I need to deliver a nice peppy shovel talk._

“...Sorry, I can’t make it.”

After a second of silence, there’s a sigh. “Hey, I get that you love your schedule, but you can always watch things later-“

“It’s not that,” Sokka says too quickly. “I just have an activity tonight. At a different place. At the same time.”

“...Is this a date?”

“What?” he splutters. “Why would you think that?”

“Hmmm, maybe because that’s the exact pick-up line you used on Yue?”

“I was twelve!”

“My question stands!”

“Look,” he sighs. “I’m just meeting this guy at the gym, for some friendly fencing.”

“So you’re both into swordplay?”

“Yeah.”

“And which of you uses the bigger sword?”

“Well, we’re using foam _dao_ from the same set so- Katara!”

He facepalms as Katara disintegrates into giggling.

“He’s only in town for the Olympics,” Sokka says, trying to reclaim some dignity. “And he’s really good with swords. _Do not_ make the pun.”

“Fine,” she says contritely. “Where’s he from?”

“I...don’t know, actually.” He’d mentioned Katara’s name, but Lee never mentioned his sister’s. Sokka would guess they’re from Japan, China, or the USA, but with all the immigration shenanigans that go on for the Olympics he can’t really be sure. Heck, he doesn’t even know Lee’s last name. Maybe Lee _is_ his last name.

“He’s sort of private about things,” Sokka adds. “I’m trying not to push.”

 _“You_ aren’t pushing? He must be special.”

“He is.”

She relents. “Okay, have fun on your not-date.”

Rolling his eyes, Sokka bids her good-bye and heads out.

/

“Sorry I’m late,” Lee says, once again rushing into the gym with a wispy bun and rosy cheeks. “My dad blew up at me.”

Sokka- who had been swiping at a dangling tennis ball with two _dao_ swords and making contact about once every five attempts- instantly turns to him, frowning. “Why?”

“You know how pentathlon’s got the equestrian part?”

Sokka nods.

“Well, my sister hates animals.”

“Um.”

Lee snorts. 

“So-“ he takes off his light raincoat to reveal a tight black t-shirt, and how are those biceps even _possible-_ “it’s usually not a big issue, because you don’t use your own horse in pentathlon. They give you a new one and you bond for twenty minutes, and usually she can lie for twenty minutes. Convince her horse she wouldn’t prefer it as a handbag.”

“Usually?”

“She got thrown off today.”

Sokka winces. “Is she okay?”

“What?” Lee blinks in surprise, like the question’s caught him off guard. “Oh, yeah, nothing rattles her. But then Father- he’s her coach, and he, um...he yelled at the horse. And got them both kicked out of the stable.”

For a second, Sokka can only gawp at him, because nothing in that sequence of events made any sense.

Eventually he asks, “Why did he blow up at _you?”_

“Because he was mad about the horse.” Lee frowns at him like it should be obvious.

Sokka feels like he’s missing something. He hopes he’s missing something. Otherwise that sounds an awful lot like misdirected anger, and Lee’s dad sounds like a little bit of a jerk.

“And,” Lee adds, “she’s having trouble in fencing practice, so that doesn’t help.”

“Why don’t you offer her a couple tips?”

Lee lifts his good eyebrow. “She’d take her _epée_ and garrote me with it.”

“...So that’s pleasant.” Sokka shakes his head as Lee chuckles. “You still wanna spar?”

“Always.”

/

The next night, Sokka lands a hit on Lee.

It’s not the cleanest hit, maybe. He’d slashed his sword sideways towards Lee’s chest, attempting to shock him with sheer speed. Lee blocked him, blades clashing a ninety-degree angle.

Then Sokka panicked.

And swapped directions, sliding his blade _down_ past Lee’s foam hilt _,_ touching his hand with the edge.

The world freezes for a second, and then Lee beams at him.

(Lee’s smirked, and snorted, and maybe chuckled a couple times, but he’s never smiled like this, radiant as a sunbeam burning through clouds.)

“Yes,” he says, stepping back. “That’s how you do it.”

“It’d never have worked if you had a guard on that sword, your hand would be-“

“Inaccessible,” Lee finishes, practically radiant with delight. “But these are the swords we have-“ he tosses his foam _dao_ in the air and then spins it to point at Sokka-- “and you won.”

Sokka lifts his eyebrows. “I won one point.”

Lee lifts his eyebrows in challenge. “If this was real? I’d be missing four fingers right now.”

“And it’d be because of your teaching.” Sokka tucks the _dao_ under his arm and bows. “Thank you, Master Lee.”

“Betrayed by my own pupil, I see,” he says, voice warm with amusement. “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

Lee’s ready for the sliding trick this time, and the next three variants Sokka invents. Sokka chases him all around the mat they’ve claimed as their own and Lee still slips away every time, effortless and invincible-

Until he drops his sword and grabs his arm, cursing under his breath.

Sokka stops fighting immediately. “Lee?”

Lee’s cradling his right arm, eyes clenched shut. 

“You okay there?” Sokka says, feeling silly even as he asks.

“Yeah,” Lee says through gritted teeth. “Just a cramp.”

“Hey, Fat-“ Sokka waves at him from across the gym- “something hot please?” He turns back to Lee, who’s trying to stretch his arm a little, even while breathing way too fast. “Uh, so Katara used to get the worst leg cramps and she taught me how to massage them, so I could. I could do that for you, if you wanted. No pressure.” He pauses before adding, “Pun not intended.”

After a long, painful moment, Lee cracks his eyes open. “Let’s try it.”

Sokka plops down on the mat. Lee follows him, sitting down and extending his right arm. Fat hands him a hot towel and a glass of water.

“Don’t be a drip, take a sip,” Sokka says, singsong. 

Though Lee glares at him he complies, taking a large gulp of water.

“Show me where it hurts?”

His jaw tensed, Lee points to his forearm. “It’s not the tendon, for once.”

“One muscle-relaxing massage coming up.” Sokka drapes the towel over Lee’s arm and caresses the limb gently, willing the warmth into his muscles. Then he leans in and begins the massage, methodically pressing his thumbs into Lee’s forearm, rubbing small circles. 

When Lee’s breath hitches, he sharply looks up. “Does that hurt more?”

“No,” he says softly. “It’s nice.”

“The muscles are overworked,” Sokka remarks, when the silence grows taut enough to snap. “You should hydrate. And rest.”

Lee shrugs. “I don’t actually need my right arm.”

Sokka smiles, because that was a joke. That had to be a joke.

“I happen to think it’s a very nice arm,” Sokka says.

“It’s weak,” he mutters. “Doesn’t help that my technique’s sloppy.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s too much tension.”

Sokka glances up to find Lee looking at him, his eyes warm, his lips parted as if he wants to say something more. His cheeks are flushed, and his expression is painfully tender.

Like a coward, Sokka tears his gaze away. Directs it back at Lee’s absurdly muscled, _statuesque_ arm.

“You're in amazing shape,” he observes.

“I...so are you.”

Grateful, Sokka smiles at him.

“This might be another one of those awful invasive questions,” he says, “and you’re free to tell me and my curiosity to go to hell. But why wouldn’t your dad train you for these Olympics, too?”

“He did,” comes the quick answer.

Sokka’s hands still. “You’re a pentathlete?”

“What? No! No,” he says, a little bewildered. “I quit pentathlon when I was thirteen. You need all five events, and I couldn’t do it.”

“Got it.” Sokka gives Lee’s arm a long stroke, as reassuring as he can make it. “That’s okay. Maybe I could’ve followed Katara down the Olympic rabbit-hole, but I decided to do a little of everything and not specialize in anything. Not enough to make it to the Olympics, anyway.”

He thinks that’s the end of it, but Lee shifts and inhales again.

“I was never at my sister’s level,” he murmurs. “For a while I was only better at riding. I had a Dutch warmblood named Druk-“ his voice goes up like it’s a question, and Sokka nods, listening intently- “and I really liked being with him. But Father’s a tough coach, and he had us training for _all_ the events as soon as possible, and, um. I was the worst shot ever.”

By now, Sokka’s heard a lot of Lee’s self-assessments. Perhaps it’s presumptuous to think he can understand the psyche of a relative stranger, but he tentatively translates “worst shot ever” to “only a little above average.”

“So I was thirteen and convinced I’d win the 2020 pentathlon,” he says, his voice getting quieter until Sokka has to lean in close to hear it. “And I was practicing with my sister on the range, and I thought I actually aimed properly for once.”

Sokka keeps his hands going, trying to set a steady rhythm. It’s as much for himself as Lee. Despite the warmth of the towel, Sokka feels eerily cold.

“But this shot didn’t sound right, exactly, so I stopped for a minute. And Father walked over and wanted to know why, and I tried to tell him the bullet should’ve hit near the bullseye but it wasn’t there, and he said obviously I’d missed the target entirely and I had to shoot again, right then, because I’d never learn if I didn’t practice.”

Sokka freezes.

Takes another look at the burn on Lee’s face, the one that looks too much like Bato’s scar.

Like the one Bato got from flying hot shrapnel.

“Turned out the first bullet hadn’t actually left the gun,” Lee says, his voice still quiet but bitter now, too. “So when the second one hit it…”

“Boom?” Sokka supplies, when Lee can’t quite finish the sentence.

And by some miracle, he laughs- just one breath of a chuckle. “Yeah, basically.”

“...I’m so sorry.” 

Sokka wants to hug him. He wants to hold Lee’s hand. He wants to fold Lee up in both arms and never let go.

“There were upsides,” Lee offers, in a forced upbeat tone that just makes things _sadder._ “I learned to do things with my other hand. And if I ever manage to date someone I know they won’t just like me for my looks.”

 _(They,_ he says. Sokka feels bad for even noticing that right now.)

“But I gave up shooting after that,” he concludes in a rush. “And Father gave Druk to my sister, so no pentathlon for me. Sorry. Long-winded answer, I don’t know why I’m even dredging up ancient history now-“

“Hey.“ Sokka squeezes his arm, and it could be just part of the massage if Lee needs it to be, but he means so much more. “I can’t imagine how tough it is to go through something like that, or tell someone about it. I know we’re mostly strangers, but I want you to know you’re _awesome,_ and I admire you a lot...And I so, so appreciate your honesty.”

He waits for Lee to say something, but he just lowers his head, angling it away from Sokka.

Then he jerks his right arm away and shoves his face into both fists. Sokka yanks his own hands away, keeping them raised, the universal signal of “I mean you no harm.”

“Lee?“ he asks, cautiously as he can.

Lee recoils, just hearing his name. When he exhales, the sound’s shaky and wet.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, now lowering his hands and looking somewhere over Sokka’s shoulders. “I’ve been unfair to you. Like Azula and the circuits.”

Sokka frowns in confusion. “Like who and the circus?”

He scrambles to his feet, warm towel abandoned on the floor. “You’ve been much more decent than I deserve, and... If you ever find out, please accept my apology in advance.”

Sokka rises too. “Lee, I have literally no idea what you’re apologizing for.”

“That’s...good.” He frowns, as if wrestling with himself. “That’s good. I...hope you enjoy the Olympics. Good luck to your sister.”

Then, looking ready to burst into tears, he flees the gym.


	3. allez

“So Hahn and Yue broke up _again,”_ Katara hisses. She’s quiet enough not to draw eyes in this fancy Asakusa restaurant, but every syllable drips venom.

Sokka’s finally eating his favorite tempura with his baby sister and his dad, but the serotonin’s coming slowly today. Normally he’d care deeply about Yue’s love life- especially any opening where he might insert himself. Today, the words come through to him sluggishly, like he’s watching from another planet.

(He caught up on three sports this morning, the footage interspersed with peppy Olympic ads, and it just felt like a chore.)

“- but who gets a name wrong five times in a row? ‘Arnook’’s not even a _hard_ name. And now Hahn’s complaining that he dumped a ton of money on Olympic tickets for Sunday afternoon, never mind that Yue _has practice,_ because he can’t help flashing his fancy black credit card around. And they’re all fencing tickets, because he _could’ve_ sprung for gymnastics but no, men think violence is the height of romance!”

Violently, she dunks her shrimp in dipping sauce and splashes it onto the table. A few seconds later, Sokka’s brain finally catches up with her words.

“So does Hahn...have a bunch of spare fencing tickets now?”

Katara gives him a warning look. “If your next question is-”

“Does he need someone to take them off his hands?” Sokka finishes.

Dad inhales sharply. “If this boy’s half as rude as he sounds, he’ll gouge the prices beyond anything you can reasonably afford.”

“That’s illegal,” Sokka exclaims. “If he tries it we can report him to the authorities, get him some nice jail time-”

“I wish we could,” Katara interrupts with a sigh. “But no, Hahn’s not even trying. He’s giving them away half-price, to rub Yue’s nose in how much he doesn’t need to care about money. As if _money’s_ enough to compensate for his tiny, practically invisible-”

“Does he have a seat at the women’s sabre final?”

He holds Katara’s stare. Beside them, Dad chuckles to himself and steals both their sweet potatoes.

/

Katara relents, because she’s the nicest Olympic medalist ever. She makes no guarantees- and she insists on getting Yue’s permission first- but she’ll enter into negotiations with Hahn to obtain one nicely discounted ticket to the women’s individual sabre final. Even though it’s not a done deal, Sokka manages to summon up at least half of his prior Olympic enthusiasm, because watching women’s sabre means watching Mai Akanishi, a.k.a. the fastest swordswoman to ever live, slash her way to gold. And maybe sabre’s not actually the best sport to watch live, since the blades move way too fast for a normal human to actually _see_ them, but Sokka won’t let that bring him down.

(He obsessively studies up on the state of elite women’s sabre that night, and he insistently doesn’t think about chasing a boy/dancer/ex-pentathlete around a musty old gym, wielding nothing but foam swords.)

/

_The World’s Best Diver_

> _han totally strung me along for ages, the final ticket’s gone  
> _ _I know it’s all about mai for you so I asked for the semifinal  
> _ _will let you know!!!_

/

Aang wins at trampoline.

It’s a genuine Olympic moment. Katara huddles over the laptop with Sokka and clutches his fingers hard enough to leave marks while Aang takes his place on the trampoline. When he nails his perfectly centered, gravity-defying, 18-point-difficulty routine and lands with that dazzling grin, Sokka loses his voice screaming again. At least Katara can’t scold him this time, having lost hers too.

She’s ecstatic, even more pleased by Aang’s medal than by her own, and Sokka knows without a doubt that national borders won’t keep them apart. When they all go out together for a celebratory dinner, Sokka doesn’t have the heart to contribute much to the conversation, and it doesn’t matter- Katara and Aang are so busy cooing and smiling and petting each other’s medals, nothing like mere conversation could hold their notice. Aang, who usually sticks to a strict low-tech, low-distraction regimen, has broken his monkish principles and made an Instagram account just to follow her. Katara’s already planning for a visit south of the border, come winter break.

The Olympics are full of ephemera- little moments of connection that constantly slip away- but his sister’s managed to grab something permanent in the chaos. The exception that proves the rule.

/

_The World’s Best Diver_

> _ok so hahn totally gave all his sabre tickets to his dad  
> _ _and normally I’d go awww, look, he does have a heart  
>  but he promised to get back to me this morning and it took TWENTY TEXTS  
> _ _are you still not-dating sword guy  
> _ _bc if not you should ask yue to do an activity again  
> _ _her standards need raising  
> _ _twenty texts  
> _ _ok maybe some of that was my fault because I sometimes  
>  you know  
> _ _stretch sentences out across multiple texts  
> _ _(it’s a homey less formal style, ok? it’s more laid back and comforting and it keeps people from freaking out???)  
> _ _(hang on, I definitely picked this up from you)  
> _ _(oh my god)  
> _ _still. TWENTY TEXTS_

Sokka goes to the gym. Smacks a tennis ball around. He returns that book on _tai chi,_ and just smiles wanly when Fat asks where his partner’s gone.

/

_The World’s Best Diver_

> _HEY LOOK  
> _ _[_ _image attached]_

That’s a ticket.

Hahn may have given away all his sabre tickets, but women’s sabre isn’t the only discipline of the day. By some miracle, he’s deigned to grant Sokka one ticket, valid for the bronze medal bout in men’s individual foil. 

Of course, because Hahn’s a flake who never deserved Yue in the first place, he decides to announce this with approximately zero notice. Sokka goes scrambling out of his apartment, gripping his clear tote bag for dear life, re-reading the spectator rules to make sure he won’t get himself thrown out of the hall, and begging Google Maps not to screw him with the time estimates for once. If he was even one iota less organized, there’s no way he’d make it in time.

But he does make it, and despite his niggling doubts the ticket turns out legit. As he race-walks through the hall to his seat he considers searching the competitors, but there’s no point- he dumped all his energy into studying up on women’s sabre, he barely knows a single name in men’s foil. Better to go in fresh.

“Hey, man, thanks for the ticket.”

Hahn holds out his hand. At first Sokka thinks it’s for a handshake, but then he remembers who he’s dealing with. He reaches into his wallet and forks over an admittedly reasonable amount of cash.

“Who are we watching?”

“China vs. USA,” Hahn tells him offhand while counting the bills. “China’s gonna win, who cares. But I saw Mai Akanishi this morning, and sure I’d watched the footage on TV, but may I just say there is _nothing_ like seeing an Akanishi _dérobement_ live? Seriously, I recommend getting your hands on a ticket if you possibly can-”

Hahn talks Sokka’s ear off, growing more and more punchable with every sentence. It’s okay, because Sokka misses every other word. He’s drowned out by the crowd, steadily swelling in size and volume. Wiggling in his seat, Sokka takes a look around to soak up the atmosphere.

Springboard diving may be the most demanding and sophisticated sport at these Games, but fencing is objectively the coolest-looking.

Seriously. The hall’s something out of a sci-fi movie, like the Grid from _Tron,_ pitch-black but streaked through with streamlined neon. The fencing strip at the center of the hall smolders orange-red like magma. On either side of the strip, the Olympic rings shine a brilliant gold. Half the strip is bordered by clean green stripes. The other side’s edged in red.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” booms the announcer’s voice, “would you please welcome the athletes and officials for the bronze medal match for the men’s individual foil?”

Then the Led Zeppelin starts playing, and Sokka’s heart is lost to the spectacle.

The crowd shoots to its feet, raising a ground-shaking cheer that wars with the electric guitar as the parade begins. Sokka’s too high up to make out the faces, but he spots the two fencers marching out, wielding their swords and dressed in spotless white.

“From the People’s Republic of China, Feng Long!”

The first man salutes the crowd, greeting both sides of the hall with a slight bow and a dignified flick of his sword. At his command, the whole crowd lets out a simultaneous roar.

“Three-time medalist,” Hahn shouts in his ear.

Sokka believes it. There’s an unnatural calm about the man, like he’s been here before and grown bored of the applause. He wears his hair in a long braid, and his forehead looks a little large. Logically, he’s probably just balding early. Sokka can’t help thinking his brain’s huge and full of secrets. He’s an imposingly tall, nearly inhuman figure in his wired-up armor. It’s snow-white, but for his blood-red shoes.

“His opponent from the United States of America, Zuko Kaneko!”

Huh. The first thing Sokka notices is the fact that Zuko’s _short,_ a solid half-foot smaller than Feng. Second, he spots blue and red on Kaneko’s mask- he’s got the American flag on there, with the stars and stripes. Third, it occurs to him that Kaneko’s a mildly unfortunate name for someone in the _bronze_ medal bout. Translated from Japanese, “Kaneko” means “golden child.”

“I don’t even know how he got this far,” Hahn says, grabbing his attention as the crowd gives a somewhat more subdued cheer. “From what I heard, he had to scrape his way to the quarter-finals yesterday.”

Sokka shrugs and turns back, craning his neck to see Kaneko’s salute. But right as he turns around, the girl in front of Sokka leaps to her feet, wildly waving a massive flag.

A Chinese flag.

By the time she sits down Kaneko’s turned back around, and Sokka frowns, because why would someone wave a Chinese flag for the American athlete? Then he realizes there must be language difficulties at play- she clearly didn’t realize that Feng’s introduction had already happened.

“Zuko’s so doomed,” she snickers to the older man beside her, in perfect American English.

Suddenly, Sokka’s a diehard Zuko fan. One point to the power of spite.

 _“En garde,”_ says the referee. The fencers take their places on their respective sides of the strip, Zuko on red and Feng on green. Swords up, masks down.

 _“Pret,_ ” says the referee, and Sokka suddenly realizes that he’s been mixing up the order of the words, all through his sparring sessions. He wonders if Lee noticed.

_“Allez!”_

Sokka’s only studied this kind of classical fencing a little bit, but here’s what he knows: it’s like chess. Crossed with ballet. With swords. And foil fencing’s unlike any other kind- lightning-fast and ruthlessly precise. There’s no slashing hits allowed, only perfectly aimed pinpricks from the tip of the blade. There’s no reward for hitting the limbs, because the valid target area’s tiny, just the torso. Foil’s all about lethality. An attack only counts if- in a world with sharper blades- it could kill.

Zuko and Feng wait for several seconds, in perfect suspension. Two apex predators sizing each other up.

Sokka holds his breath.

(He can hear Lee in his ear, husky voice murmuring clever insights. _Zuko’s smaller, which could mean he’s at a disadvantage. If he’s not careful, then Feng can attack him while he’s too far to hit back._

 _So,_ Sokka would say in the better world where Lee’s sitting beside him instead of Hahn, _he could wait for Feng to attack him.)_

Zuko wiggles his sword, tipping it forward with the slightest trace of menace. Feng stays, unmovable, like a statue of stone.

 _(That doesn’t seem to be working out for him,_ Lee says wryly. _What else can he try?)_

Speed.

Zuko _explodes,_ lunging forth at Feng. His step’s so wide it’s nearly a split, and Sokka briefly worries that Zuko’s just irreparably injured himself-

The red side of the strip lights up with a shrill beep, as the electronic scoring system announces that Zuko landed a hit. 

“What just happened?” Sokka exclaims. He knows, intellectually, that fencing pretty much operates at bullet-speed, but he’s still surprised to _totally miss the first attack._

“He got Feng in the stomach,” Hahn tells him. “It’s always hard following live fencing if you haven’t seen it before.”

“Cute,” the girl in front of them says, now inspecting her nails. “He’s going easy to soften Zuko up.” 

The older man sitting to her left turns to glance at her, and oh god, he’s got a goatee like a cartoon supervillain. He chuckles. “Feng always did like his mind games.”

The battle restarts. The first person to hit fifteen points within the next nine minutes wins, so Zuko only has fourteen to go. Easy peasy.

Again, the fencers wait. The audience grants them pindrop silence. Again, Zuko bursts forth with no warning, jabbing at Feng’s shoulder, and Sokka gets ready to cheer as Team USA scores its second point, and...

Feng takes a step back, out of range. Zuko keeps advancing, tilting his blade back and forth in a steady rhythm, repeatedly threatening to attack even as he slowly backs Feng up and corners him on his end of the strip. Feng goes easily, like he’s simply waiting for something. For what, Sokka can’t imagine.

Abruptly Zuko breaks out of his back-forthing and stabs at Feng, only to have his blade batted aside. Feng parries, knocking Zuko’s strike off-kilter, and then takes advantage, hitting him squarely in the breastbone.

The strip goes green, and the audience goes _wild._ The girl in front of Sokka’s clearly not alone in her Feng fandom. She might be the most enthusiastic, though- her cheer’s shrill enough to shatter a world decibel record, not to mention Sokka’s eardrums.

When the match begins again, a cycle emerges. First, the fencers wait. Then Zuko loses patience and lunges, only to have his sword shoved off-course with a brutally efficient parry. Sometimes he survives a rapid flurry of blows and escapes, and the dance begins again. More often, he gets smacked with a calculated hit to the ribs or shoulders or gut.

(Or, on one occasion, the lower groin. He’s wearing enough protective equipment not to react, but Sokka cringes just thinking of it.)

“And they say _epée’s_ boring,” the girl says, after the fourth time Zuko falls into one of Feng’s traps. She’s facing forward, but Sokka can hear her eyeroll.

Zuko pauses longer, the next time around. Suddenly, he sprints forward, sword pointed down like he’s aiming for the abdomen. Yet as Feng moves to parry that attack, Zuko smoothly lifts the blade, targeting his shoulder.

 _(If you can’t win with a direct attack,_ Lee would say thoughtfully, _feinting’s a good way to go.)_

Sokka cheers with the USA fans, once Zuko finally, finally gets his second point.

(It’s odd, though. He saw through Zuko’s misdirection before Feng did.)

“Whoa,” Hahn comments, “Kaneko’s awesome at feinting.”

“Pretty good,” Sokka says, right as the girl turns around and sneers, “He really isn’t.”

She turns back around. Sokka stares daggers into her perfect little bun.

Zuko waits. Lunges. Retreats. Feints again.

Again Sokka somehow sees it coming- there’s just something familiar in the way Zuko carries himself. But Feng fails to guess, and he ought to take a sword to his left flank.

But the strip flashes white and green, not red. The white means that Zuko’s hit’s been declared invalid, though Sokka can’t guess why- it looked gorgeous to him. 

Feng recovers and scores again.

/

The event’s split into three rounds of three minutes each.

Coming out of the first round, Feng’s leading with 6 points. Zuko has only 2. As the fencers take a quick break- Feng takes off his mask to confer with his coach, but Zuko keeps his on- Sokka reflects on what he’s seen thus far.

Zuko seems young, and fiery. He might be small, but he’s full of rage or at least passion. Sokka would be scared to face him. Yet Feng fights like an older, more experienced man, with a stony minimalism to his actions. 

In this case, stone will surely beat fire.

Still, Sokka can’t help being drawn to Zuko. Feng’s footwork is stark and jerky. Zuko’s is the opposite, fluid and explosive and graceful like _dance,_ and Sokka wonders if Lee looked to him for inspiration. Obviously he couldn’t copy Zuko perfectly- a foam _dao’s_ nothing like a metal foil, and Zuko’s left-handed while Lee preferred his right. But there’s still some similarity, some bond between them that Sokka can’t quite identify.

The second round begins.

When the referee next calls _“allez,”_ Zuko skips the pretense of waiting. He charges right at Feng and then _past_ him, landing a valid hit somewhere along the way, way too fast for Sokka to spot it. Next, he tries the feinting again, aiming high before shifting downwards, and again it looks like a perfect move.

And again, it’s rewarded with white lights instead of red ones. The point’s declared invalid.

Zuko slumps. Then he stiffens, glancing towards his coach and then at the referee. Though Zuko’s seemed confident in battle thus far, practically supernatural, he pauses now, fiddling with his foil. He fidgets, like a kid with a question who’s too afraid to ask it in front of the class. Sokka leans forward, suddenly nervous for him.

“Interesting.” The girl leans forward too, but when she speaks it’s with morbid delight. “What’s Feng up to?”

Zuko tips his mask up, though he doesn’t remove it entirely. Even though he’s begun sneaking glances at the big screen, Sokka still can’t see most of his face, yet for one bizarre second all he knows is that those lips are remarkably kissable. He mentally kicks himself and refocuses on the actual situation at hand, as Feng removes his own mask to engage in conversation with Zuko. Sokka can’t guess what they’re saying, but Feng’s stone-faced, glaring down at him and radiating disapproval. A murmur arises from the crowd.

Alone on the strip, Zuko spins around to face the officials and begins to speak, his gestures starting slow and then growing more urgent, plaintive. After an eternity of pleading, the officials confer among themselves and announce something in French.

“What’s going on?” Sokka asks Hahn.

For the first time, Hahn fails to have an answer for everything.

A referee strides forward, grabs Zuko’s blade, and presses the point into Feng’s armor- into the general area Zuko had been aiming for with his feint. The hall lights flash red, like they’re supposed to when Zuko’s weapon hits a legitimate target. Zuko shakes his head vigorously and points to a slightly different spot. The lights turn red again.

The girl sinks her head into her hands. “This is embarrassing.”

Beside her, the older man simply strokes his goatee.

Zuko makes another plea with a stomp of his foot, on the verge of throwing a tantrum. Sokka’s pulse ratchets up- from pity and fondness and concern, all mixed up and more intense than they should be, given that he’s never seen Zuko Kaneko before in his life.

Once more, the referee presses the sword against Feng’s left side.

The lights flash white, declaring the hit off-target though it clearly wasn’t, and the crowd lets out a collective gasp.

Sokka’s jaw drops. “Feng’s wearing bad armor. Look, he’s got a dead spot, right where Zuko hit him.”

Eyes popping out, Hahn nods. “That’s insane, they always check the wiring-“

“So,” Sokka finishes, “Zuko actually won this point, even though the lights said he didn’t!”

“No,” snaps the girl in front of them, now favoring Sokka with just half a head-turn. “He lost the point, that’s it. No rewriting history.”

“Was it an accident?” Sokka asks, the questions bubbling over. “Or did Feng sabotage the wiring?” 

A funny shadow passes over the girl’s face, but then she shrugs. “An accident, obviously.”

She turns forward again. The man she’s with doesn’t acknowledge their conversation at all. He’s simply watching the scene below, as Feng’s ushered off-stage to change into a whole other suit of armor and Zuko drops down on the strip, legs tucked neatly below him so he’s sitting right on his heels. He drops the mask down again and covers his entire face. Sokka wonders why- he doesn’t have to keep it on when he’s not actively fighting, and it’s gotta be hot under there.

“Stupid,” the older man suddenly bites out. Going by the angle of his head, he’s looking down, right at Zuko. “He lost a point on the same error, last round. He should’ve spoken up earlier.”

For the record, Sokka doesn’t think _Zuko_ should get all the blame here. Shouldn’t Feng have noticed being repeatedly stabbed? 

Down below, Zuko sits, sinking his forehead- through the mask- into both hands. As staff and officials whirl around Feng he’s been left alone, practically forgotten.

According to the scoreboard, Feng’s got 6 points and Zuko’s got 3. If Feng’s armor had worked right, maybe Zuko would have 5.

_5._

Feng returns to the strip in an alternate suit of armor, newly double-checked by the officials. Zuko picks himself back up. In his position, Sokka’s not sure he could’ve done the same.

So Sokka cheers at close-to-top volume. The Feng fans are all applauding too as their idol retakes the stage, so Zuko would have no way of distinguishing Sokka’s cheers from the rest, but it’s the best he can offer. 

_“En garde. Pret. Allez!”_

Somehow, Zuko dives back in. He’s as aggressive as before, as creative and quick on his feet. 

It’s not enough.

Zuko scores a couple points, but Feng fights with a new sort of fury. Zuko chases him down the strip, leaving openings as he does, and Feng takes advantage. Thoroughly. Viciously. He taunts Zuko, circling his blade without true intent, taking pleasure in dancing on his nerves. And though in his prior strikes before his movements were restrained, efficient, he now throws extra power into every blow.

Excessive power, in Sokka’s opinion.

Sokka can only watch as Zuko’s attacks crumple, one after another, his aggressive tactics exploited and turned mercilessly against him. Feng racks up points, heading steadily towards the magic 15, and it feels like watching a vivisection.

For one instant, Sokka makes the mistake of thinking it can’t get any worse. 

There’s only seven seconds left in the second round. Zuko seems content to wait out the clock and renew his attacks next time.

That’s when _Feng_ attacks. Zuko- saved by his size for once- gracefully ducks, so the tip of Feng’s blade sails clean past the target area. Yet Feng doesn’t stop, and his blade whips Zuko’s bare right hand.

The girl flinches. The man beside her doesn’t react at all.

Zuko recoils instantly as the clock runs out, falling to one knee and curling up around the injured limb. He places his foil on the floor and cradles his right arm with his left, and despite the layers of armor Sokka can see him heaving for breath.

“Is that...blood?” Hahn says, hesitating.

Sokka has no answer for him, because fencing’s safe.

It’s supposed to be safe, at least. It’s supposed to be one of the safest Olympic sports by far, and expert fencers are supposed to fight with precision and honor to avoid dealing grievous injuries. 

(Fencing’s all about honor. It’s a _thing.)_

Feng steps back, impassively watching the officials swarming around Zuko for a change. 

(Call Sokka paranoid, but he’d bet that hit- far from Zuko’s torso, from any valid target- landed right where Feng wanted it to.)

/

The action stops as Zuko receives medical attention.

“God,” Hahn says, “I wouldn’t wanna be one of the broadcasters right now. Can you imagine what this is doing to the schedule?”

Sokka barely hears him, peering down at the side of the strip where the medics cluster around Zuko. There’s a bandage, and maybe some antiseptic and ice. A worried murmur swirls through the audience.

“Why don’t they card Feng or something?” Sokka blurts. “He was trying to stab him.”

“That’s the point of fencing,” Hahn says dryly.

“Oh, come on, you saw that! Feng was out for blood _,_ there has to be some rule against that-“

“Zhao’s the referee,” the girl says, turning fully around and arching two perfectly shaped eyebrows at him. “He’s got a respect for raw power.”

Below them under the glaring lights, Zuko takes a towel and violently scrubs his cheeks dry. He’s still got the mask half-on, hiding his eyes, preserving the possibility that it’s only sweat. Sokka’s tempted to cry for him.

The timer for the medical break ticks down, and Sokka wonders if Zuko will forfeit. He wouldn’t blame him, not now that Feng’s fighting like he’s going for the kill, while Zuko’s still sitting hunched over, rocking back and forth in obvious pain.

The clock ticks down, and somehow Zuko gets back up again. He marches back onto the strip. His mask’s down, but he’s still clearly holding his head high.

(There’s one bizarre moment where Sokka thinks Zuko glances right at him. But that’s silly; Zuko can’t make out faces this far up, not with the mask and the lighting. Even if he could, he’d have no reason to look at _Sokka.)_

Kaneko: 6. Feng: 11.

_“Allez!”_

Zuko charges. 

Red lights go up.

The next time, he waits before he charges. When he does, his blade’s pointed at Feng’s shoulder, but Sokka can tell from his body language he’s really aiming for his side again. Feng guesses that too, and gets ready to parry an attack on his side, and Zuko just...goes for his shoulder. It looks like a diabolical feint wrapped inside a feint, the most duplicitous trick ever designed on a fencing strip. 

Or maybe Zuko just really wanted to stab his shoulder. Sokka really wouldn’t blame him.

He expected Zuko to crumple under pressure. Instead he rises, dancing down the strip with newfound fire, like the pain and desperation have combined to make him dangerous. He presses Feng onto his back foot, literally. Their swords clank together at increasingly furious tempos as Zuko batters against Feng’s walls. 

Kaneko: 9. Feng: 12.

Feng hits Zuko’s arm. He’s decidedly off-target. The lights flash white.

“What happens if neither one of them gets to fifteen?” Sokka whispers to Hahn.

“That never happens in foil,” he replies. “But whoever’s ahead at the nine minute-mark would win.”

Feng hits his thigh- another invalid strike. His control’s slipping.

(Before the referee calls _“en garde,”_ Zuko glances into the audience again. Sokka’s imagining it, he must be, but it really feels like Zuko’s looking up to him.)

Feng parries Zuko’s next attack. Forces him back a few steps, into that awful space where Feng can reach Zuko but Zuko can’t reach back. 

_(He needs to move further back,_ Lee might say. _Either that or-)_

Zuko _throws_ himself down into the deepest lunge Sokka’s ever seen. His right hand drops to the strip. His left arm shoots straight out, driving the tip of his sword right into Feng’s hip.

The red lights flash.

Zuko just dropped his weight onto his right hand.

Then, in real time, Sokka spots the moment that Zuko remembers why that was a bad idea. The split-second when he regrets all his life choices and his injured hand gives out, sending him toppling sideways. Somehow he manages to land on his arm, rather than the hand itself, but Sokka still cringes in sympathy.

Zhao pulls out a card.

A yellow card.

Sokka scoffs and throws up both hands. “Did he just card _Zuko?”_

A second later, he realizes that last point didn’t get added to Zuko’s score.

Hahn’s frowning too. “I guess you shouldn’t score while you’re falling.”

“But he didn’t,” Sokka protests, gesticulating wildly at the strip. “He was totally fine when he scored! He only fell _afterwards_ because that hand’s been sawed open!”

Down below, Zuko’s stopped, raising his mask halfway again and addressing the referee, initiating some kind of appeal.

“There’s no way that lunge was a legit fencing move,” Hahn remarks. “I’ve never seen anyone do that.”

“It totally could’ve been legit,” Sokka counters. “I feel like I’ve seen it in a movie somewhere, it was _perfect_ stage combat.”

“That’s not a good thing in actual fencing,” the girl in front of him says, not deigning to look his way.

“But is it illegal?” Sokka retorts.

She doesn’t answer. Sokka interprets that as a resounding “no.”

Down below, the appeal’s starting to look more like an argument. The referee steps back to check something on the computers, and steps forward again and says something, with a tilt of his head that looks almost mocking. Zuko lifts his injured hand and dramatically points at it. The referee utters some retort, and Zuko responds by throwing up both hands like Sokka did, and-

Zhao flashes a red card. 

The girl facepalms. Beside her, Goatee Lord lets out a long-suffering sigh.

“I think he lost it at the referee,” Hahn says in disbelief.

“Someone should,” Sokka quips back. “Wait, what does a red card mean?”

It means a freebie point for Feng.

Kaneko: 9. Feng: 13.

Sokka thought it was scary, watching Katara leap off a springboard 3 meters in the air, but it’s nothing like this. He’s always gotten attached too easily, and part of his heart just belongs to Zuko Kaneko now, has his name engraved on it by swordpoint, and the Games aren’t a matter of fun anymore.

Sokka’s genuinely terrified for the guy.

Somehow, impossibly, Zuko pulls three more points from thin air. Then Feng slips through another vulnerability.

Kaneko: 12. Feng: 14. 30 seconds on the clock.

Zuko pulls off another grand charging attack, sprinting right past Feng and grazing him on the way.

Kaneko: 13. Feng: 14. 15 seconds on the clock.

_“Allez!”_

Zuko instantly leaps forward. Feng’s ready for him. Their blades clash in a quivering flurry of silver, blurring together like a hummingbird’s wings, and Sokka has no idea how anyone can possibly keep track of whose blade is where. They push and pull each other down the strip, and as the clock counts down Feng drives his sword into Zuko’s gut.

At the exact same time, Zuko leaps in the air and _bends his sword_ right over Feng’s shoulder. The blade arcs in a perfect parabola and smacks him on the back.

That was swordbending. Sokka’s sure there’s some fancy name for that, it’s probably French, but he’s going to call it swordbending, and Zuko should get a gold medal just for sheer coolness.

The green light flashes, but so does the red.

Sokka blinks at them both, stunned.

The girl in front of them recovers first, snapping, “We should ban everything but _epée.”_ Then, she whirls around. “Only one of them’s going to get the point-”

“Whoever was less defensive,” Sokka finishes. “Right-of-way rules, right?”

She nods, looking the tiniest bit impressed with him.

Zuko should get the point. It’s a clear-cut matter in Sokka’s head, because Zuko’s been on offense pretty much _all night._ Sokka read up on a bunch of objective, technical rules for determining right-of-way during his sabre research, but his brain boiled them down to a single criterion: when there are two valid hits simultaneously, the ballsiest fencer wins. 

And obviously, nobody has more balls than Mr. Swordbender.

Still Zhao falls deep in consultation with the other officials, taking an uncomfortably long time to award the point, like he’s _looking_ for reasons not to let Zuko have it. As they deliberate, Sokka taps the girl’s shoulder. “What if-“

“If it’s 14-14 at the end of the third round,” she informs him, “then there’s a one-minute sudden death round.”

“But what if-“

“There’ll be a coin toss before it starts,” she says smugly. “The winner of the coin toss wins the medal, if there’s no hit in the one minute.”

The referee’s consulting the computers again, and Sokka’s heart sinks as he prepares for Zuko to get crushed. Again.

Kaneko: 14. Feng: 14.

Zhao grants Zuko the point- though, in Sokka’s completely professional and unbiased opinion, he looks mad about it. Whatever. Sokka leaps to his feet to holler, “You got this, Zuko!”

(He immediately looks at Sokka. It’s completely impossible to tell with the mask, and even more impossible to see if he’s smiling.)

(But let a guy dream.)

They dive back into the third round, because there’s still time on the clock technically. Feng teases Zuko a little, moving the tip of his blade around the way cat owners move red dots in those videos. Sokka’s head bobs as he tracks each jitter. Wary, Zuko doesn’t take the bait. Neither makes a real move, and the clock at last runs out.

Time for a sudden-death round.

The two halves of the strip begin flashing in succession- red, green, red, green…

It settles on red, and a grin creeps across Sokka’s face. Zuko won the coin toss.

 _(Feng prefers to play defense,_ Lee might be thinking right now, if he’s off somewhere watching the livestream. _His attacks might be harder to predict, if Zuko hasn’t really seen them, but it’s still safer to play defense and force Feng to come to_ him-)

Zuko blasts forward, as aggressive as he’s ever been. Feng steps back, but Zuko lashes out without hesitation. He misses. He lashes out again and gets blocked and just barely dodges the tip of Feng’s blade. The foil’s side scrapes his shoulder blades.

 _(Why?_ Sokka would demand. _Why doesn’t Zuko play this one safe?_

 _Maybe he’d rather have it over with,_ Lee offers. _Maybe he needs it to be a clean win._

_But why?_

Lee-in-his-head gives him no answer.)

Zuko relents for a second. Then he leaps forward, blades tangling once more, and the point of Feng’s blade makes contact with his body.

With a piercing beep, white lights flash. He hit Zuko’s upper arm, just barely off-target.

_“En garde.”_

They take their positions again without moving back to the center, deep into Feng’s side of the strip.

_“Pret. Allez!”_

Zuko stabs at Feng again. Forces him a couple more steps back.

“That’s not too stupid,” the girl says, sounding genuinely impressed. “If Feng’s completely pinned down, he’ll have to do something reckless.”

“You think Zuko’s thought that far ahead?” the man beside her responds, voice oily and amused.

“...No, I guess he hasn’t.”

At that second Zuko stops, waiting. With a surge of hope Sokka realizes he’s turning Feng’s own mind games against him. Drawing things out. Making his opponent sweat. Any second now Zuko will jump forward with the killer strike to end it all.

Zuko waits.

And waits.

 _(Maybe he’s waiting for Feng to attack him,_ Lee doesn’t comment. _Maybe he just doesn’t know what to do.)_

Sokka can see a certain wisdom in Zuko’s aborted maybe-attacks. Zuko’s scared Feng into retreating far into his own, “green” territory. The strip’s still much narrower than the mat in Piandao’s gym, but Zuko’s bought himself extra space to maneuver. It might save him.

Zuko waits.

Feng attacks.

It’s a precise strike, like a needle entering a vein. His sword jabs straight out towards Zuko’s breastbone-

And then Zuko parries the tip away, just before it hits _his stomach._

Wow.

So Sokka thought Zuko was good with the feinting, but Feng takes it to a whole new level. He feints, and feints, and feints, like lying with his whole body comes as easy as breathing. Sokka can never guess where any attack is going to land.

Yet Zuko does. He parries constantly, knocking Feng’s blade away every time it slithers up. He gives up his own chances at attacks in favor of keeping his defense airtight.

 _(How does someone get so good at seeing through feints?_ Sokka wonders.

 _Practice,_ Lee would tell him, a frown embedded in his brow. _He must have been tricked before, over and over and over again.)_

As the clock ticks down, Zuko survives. He does the bare minimum to claw through the minute, blocking attacks as they come and standing his ground on the strip.

“Zuko’s gone weak,” Goatee Lord remarks. “More than usual. He’s missed five chances to end it all.”

“Six,” the girl adds thoughtfully as Zuko parries yet another attack.

(Sokka just wants this duel to be over. Which is ridiculous, because he’s the #1 fan of all things Olympic, and he drove himself and Katara up the wall trying to get this seat, and he likes Team China _and_ Team USA. There’s no rational reason for why he’s imprinted on Zuko like a baby duckling.)

Fifteen seconds to go. 

And _this_ is when Zuko decides to attack. Like he felt Goatee Lord roasting him, he abandons the careful defense and tries to end it all, their blades colliding in a wavering mass of metal. Feng leaps back into that spot where he can hit Zuko without being hit himself, and Sokka silently begs Zuko not to do the same not-falling trick that surely reinjured his hand-

A sudden _beeeep_ gives Sokka a heart attack. But it’s white, on Feng’s side, and Zhao promptly calls his attack off-target.

Ten seconds to go.

_“Allez!”_

Feng lunges with downright monstrous ferocity. Zuko parries, parries, and-

Runs the hell away.

Literally. He’d forced Feng 75% down the strip, and though he doesn’t actively turn around he _flees,_ shoes squeaking wildly as he scrambles backwards at top-speed. He flees all 75% of the way back, springing to his _own_ end line, leaning backwards and barely leaving the toes of his back foot on the strip. His blade trembles as Feng bolts madly after him and stabs him right in the chest. Zuko, contorted in the most defensive pose he can manage, topples backwards, this time falling right off the strip. The green lights go off. 

The clock went off first.

Like a time bomb the audience detonates, loosing a tsunami of pure sound. Happy hollering from some fans, yes, but in a lower register there are questions. Maybe some jeers. The officials scramble around below for several seconds before finally, finally declaring Zuko the victor. 

Slowly, Zuko comes back to life where he’d crumpled. Having removed his mask, Feng offers him a hand, but Zuko ignores it and pushes himself up, gingerly avoiding his injured hand. They shake hands, and it’s awkward, because Feng offers his own right hand before realizing the mistake.

If it’s really a mistake. Sokka looks in those beady black eyes and doubts.

Then he looks at Zuko.

Sokka’s memorized the way Katara glowed, when she emerged from the water knowing she’d medaled. The way Aang beamed after nailing his routine. He knows how Olympians are supposed to look, when they win, but there’s none of the joy, none of the pride in Zuko as he shambles off the strip, mask still pulled firmly down. Then someone gestures to him- maybe a coach- and he stops, shoulders falling as all the life goes out of him. With obvious reluctance, he pulls off the mask and waves to the audience on the other side of the hall, revealing glossy black hair tied up in a far-too-familiar ponytail. 

“The lesson here,” Goatee Lord says to the girl before they get up and leave, “is that luck can make up for any lack of talent in an opponent. You can never get too comfortable.”

A few seconds later, Zuko turns around.

Sokka claps a hand to his mouth.

“Oh yeah,” Hahn drawls beside him, “Zuko’s face is totally screwed up. I read he shot himself as a little kid…”

Sokka meant to blow his voice again cheering if Zuko Kaneko somehow won this. But he looks down at Lee- who waves mechanically at the crowds, with a smile on his mouth and utter defeat in his eyes- and can’t make a sound.

(He knows how radiant Lee is when he’s truly happy, like when Sokka landed his first ever hit. This is the opposite.)

(He thought he knew Lee.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s a link to the [art](https://6reeze.tumblr.com/post/643592998899318784/id-a-text-less-avatar-fan-comic-featuring-zuko) on Tumblr, in case you’d like to leave some love there <3


	4. touché

“How was your bronze medal bout?” Katara asks, painfully sweet and bubbly over the phone.

“It was…” Sokka searches for a word that won’t make him sound wretchedly ungrateful for the ticket. “It was interesting. And, um, memorable. Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m going to remember this one for the rest of my life.”

“Wow, so what happened?”

“Um… I’m tired out right now, but maybe I can tell you more tomorrow? When I’ve processed whatever that was?”

She sounds confused and maybe a little concerned, but she lets it go. He hangs up, glad he didn’t burst her bubble with his newfound pessimism.

It’s not Katara’s fault in any way, shape or form, but Sokka kind of hates the Olympics right now.

/

Sokka doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Zuko Kaneko, Olympic foilist, would pose as “Lee,” befuddled novice. Maybe it was the greatest feint of all time, and Sokka was just another game to him. It must’ve been a funny lie, what with Sokka trying to teach _him_ how to handle a sword. 

Peak of comedy, right there.

He doesn’t get it at all, but he has a rule: what he can’t understand, he researches. Thus he takes a deep breath and punches that name into Wikipedia. An article comes right up for “Zuko Kaneko.”

Zuko’s portrait stares back, unsmiling and unmistakable. Someone’s tried plastering makeup onto the left side of his face, but the scar’s still painfully obvious.

_Zuko Kaneko-Li, known professionally as Zuko Kaneko..._

Okay, “Lee”- or “Li”- is part of his name, so his lie contained a kernel of truth. Not shocking. A lot of the best lies do. Sokka’s eyes dart down the page, and up again. He searches for more evidence of deception, to see how deep the fraud runs.

_His mother died in a car accident…_

_In 2011, Kaneko was involved in a firearm accident that occurred during training, scarring the left side of his face. In addition, he sustained an injury to his left hand. He then briefly studied as a sabre fencer by relying on his non-dominant right hand..._

_He completed a major in statistics and a minor in dance and performance studies…_

Sokka sinks his head into his hands and sighs. Maybe it should make it worse, that Lee gave away so many details to make his facade more believable, but Sokka just feels creeping relief.

_Though the US men’s foil fencing team ultimately came in fourth, Kaneko won all of his matches in the team event by sizable margins..._

_His sister, Azula Kaneko, will also compete at the 2020 Olympics in women’s pentathlon…_

Sokka opens the link to her name in a new tab. Once he finishes scouring Zuko’s page, he checks it out. After squinting at the main picture, he clicks on the link to _Ozai Kaneko,_ three-time gold medalist in various shooting disciplines _._

He looks at the picture- at the guy Zuko was really looking up to, at the oily smile that’s dead in the eyes and the slick goatee. Then he collapses onto his bed, keening into his pillow.

/

Sokka gives up his schedule entirely, once and for all. He skips dinner and changes for bed, chucking himself into the mattress at an uncharacteristically reasonable hour. He gives himself a stern order to fall asleep. It fails. The initial shock and emptiness have disappeared, replaced with a restless need to _understand._

(He’s got a working theory. Zuko’s obviously used to being challenged, between his sister and his father and the whole Olympics thing. Maybe he got tired of it. Maybe the inferiority complex was actually somewhat genuine, and he was using Sokka for easy wins. Just a little confidence boost, like taking candy from a baby.)

(It’s a reasonable theory, and Sokka hates it.)

 _(If you ever find out,_ Lee had said in the gym, right before he got the hell out of Dodge, _please accept my apology in advance.)_

So he’s not an entirely _remorseless_ psychopath. That’s a point in his favor.

With a groan, Sokka hauls himself out of bed and dresses for the gym. It’s past eleven, but Piandao stays open this late sometimes. He might’ve stayed specifically to stream the foil final with Fat and relive his glory days.

By the time Sokka gets out of the station it’s begun raining, and his shirt’s awful and soggy by the time he makes it to the gym’s little side street. The lights are off. Of course the lights are off. Sokka lets out a huff and considers turning right around, heading back to the subway, but something irregular catches his eye.

Curled up by the gym’s door, there’s a dark bundle.

Sokka squints at it. There’s something sticking out that looks like a high ponytail.

Warily, he walks forward. When he steps in a puddle, the splash startles said bundle. As if roused from a reverie, he scrambles to his feet and offers a smile- small but genuine.

“Sokka. Hi.”

Silently, Sokka stops. Glances down at a right hand covered in bandages.

“Oh,” he says, breathless. “Don’t worry about it, I really don’t need my right hand for anything-“

“Zuko.”

Just hearing his name, Zuko flinches. The smile disappears.

“I figured it out.” Though Sokka tries hard to keep his tone even, the ice creeps in. “Why’d you lie? I mean, I have an idea, but I’d like to hear you say it.”

Zuko frowns, opening his mouth several times before he manages a sentence. “...I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

What?

_“What?”_

“Fine, yes, I’m an Olympic fencer, and it makes it sound cool if you say it like that,” Zuko says in a barely coherent rush. “But it’s _not._ I’m not _actually good_ at any of this, and I really hadn’t done anything with _dao_ ever, and I didn’t want you to get scared off because I’m supposedly world-class with swords when the honest truth is I’m not.”

Um.

Sokka very, very tentatively updates his diagnosis from “compulsive lying” to “debilitating imposter syndrome.”

“Why does it matter?” he asks. “Why would you care if I got scared off?”

“I didn’t want you to be.”

 _“I’m_ not a secret celebrity at all,” Sokka says, choking on a laugh. “I’m nobody. You didn’t know me from Adam-“

“I knew you were _nice!”_ He inhales sharply and then plunges on, pain shining in his eyes. “You came up out of nowhere and you asked if I needed help, and you were so _happy_ about swords. I don’t know people like that, okay? I don’t know people who love fencing not because they need a medal, just _because._ And then you were happy about the Olympics, and you got to be happy about your sister, and my god, Sokka, I’ve never met anyone like you!”

He’s gesturing wildly by the end. Sokka can only stare.

“I’m aware how awful that sounds,” Zuko mutters, now stilling his hands and casting his eyes down, “that I’m not happy my sister’s at the top of her game. I hate that about myself.”

“I kind of get it,” Sokka offers after a long pause. “Not because I secretly hate Katara or anything, but, um. I met Azula today.”

Zuko’s gaze flicks up as he flinches again, a full-body tremor. “How’d you run into _her?”_

“I hadn’t planned for it or anything, but I got a last-minute seat right behind her, at your bronze medal bout.”

“You…”

Zuko trails off, raising his good hand to his mouth, suddenly blinking way too fast as his eyes fill with tears. Sokka freezes.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” he says at last, his voice watery.

Sokka nearly says, “yeah, it rivaled Dementors for sheer soul-sucking,” but he has a feeling that Zuko might take that the wrong way. He opts for caution: “What do you mean?”

Clenching his eyes shut, Zuko collapses against the wall and presses the heels of both hands into his eye sockets for a second. When he’s regained a little composure, he says, “I completely lost my honor.”

Sokka blinks, because yes, fencing loves its honor, but it’s 2020 and who even _says that._ “Sorry, what?”

“There’s a pledge of honor,” Zuko bites out. He’s still tearful, but he’s furious too, balling up his hands in fists. “Every fencer swears to fight with integrity and courage and, and...honor! And I broke that pledge in _every conceivable way_ in front of the entire planet!”

Sokka splutters in dismay. “What are you talking about?”

“I _ran off the strip,_ Sokka,” he snaps. “By the end I wasn’t even fighting Feng, I just panicked and _ran_ and he knocked me over and I deserved it!”

He furrows his brow. “Running seemed logical to me. I mean, it’s definitely what I would have done...”

“And I didn’t stand up for myself,” Zuko barrels on. “Round one, his wiring was broken and I let him get away with it, just like I always let Azula get away with it, because I’m an idiot and I thought, oh, I must have just missed the target because I’m an _idiot-“_

“Someone else should have caught that,” Sokka interrupts. There were coaches and referees and so many computer people, surely that responsibility wasn’t Zuko’s alone.

“And I cried!” he scoffs. “I was on international television and I started bawling like a little kid-“

“Your hand got split open by a sword at bullet-speed,” Sokka protests. “That is a completely reasonable basis for a couple manly tears, and anyway _I_ thought it might’ve just been sweat.”

Zuko shuts his mouth for a second, visibly fuming at Sokka, or maybe just at the world. 

“They should have thrown me off the strip,” he finally says, his voice pure steel. “They had _grounds_ for giving me a black card and throwing me out of the entire Olympics.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“I _swore at an Olympic referee!”_

“...Good, saves me the trouble.”

Zuko opens his mouth for another round of self-abuse, only to close it again in shock.

“What’d you say?” Sokka prods curiously.

“I...I didn’t swear at him, actually? Which is why he didn’t go for the black card, probably, I just used a swear word while...describing his judgment call.”

“Saved by a technicality,” Sokka quips, trying desperately for levity.

“Zhao’s never liked me,” he breathes, suddenly scarily quiet. “But now he’s going to hate me and he’s going to throw matches, and I _totally deserve_ it.“

“He can’t,” Sokka declares, crossing his arms. “People will notice if he tries, because the entire world knows how good you are now. You just won an Olympic medal for fencing.”

“I didn’t win a medal for fencing,” he whimpers, and his knees buckle for a moment. “I won for a coin toss.”

Sokka gapes at him, hoping desperately that that’s sarcasm or some other species of badly executed joke. Zuko gazes back at him, earnest and totally wrecked.

“Did Azula tell you that?” he finally says, trying his best to be gentle. “Or was it your dad?”

Zuko’s breath hitches.

“I met them both today,” Sokka remarks. “Charming pair. I don’t know how you turned out so sweet.”

“Sweet. That’s one word for it,” he snorts, eyes drifting closed. “I’m a honorless _coward.”_

Again, who says stuff like this in 2020? 

(Zuko Kaneko-Li, apparently.)

“I saw a lot of dishonorable stuff today,” Sokka says, “and literally none of it was from you.”

And that’s a sob, and that’s it, Sokka can’t stop himself from gathering Zuko up in the warmest, coziest hug he can offer.

“Baby,” he murmurs into Zuko’s gorgeous hair, muffled enough to maintain deniability. Zuko’s muffling some interesting noises of his own, face buried in Sokka’s T-shirt, though he can’t tell if there’s any new wetness or if it’s just the rain. With clearer enunciation, he says, “You were so good today. I didn’t even realize it was you at first, and I’m not even a huge Team USA fan because you keep getting in Canada’s way? So I just watched Zuko Kaneko, perfect stranger, dragging Feng Long all over that strip...and I fell a little bit in love.”

He freezes. Zuko freezes too, and for one horrid instant Sokka’s sure he’ll pull away and run once and for all, too fast for anyone to ever catch up. Then he just pulls Sokka in harder. He fists his left hand in Sokka’s soggy shirt, right arm wrapped tight around the back of his neck.

(There’s something round and hard between them, pressing against Sokka’s chest through two layers of wet shirts. Sokka ignores that for now.)

“I know how I sound right now,” Zuko snuffles. “I’m upset after getting a medal, even though nobody expected me to. I know it’s shallow, and selfish, and stupid.”

The thing is, on any ordinary occasion? Sokka would agree with that assessment. If he had even a little less context and a random guy came up and whined about how he only got bronze at his first Olympics, Sokka would be tempted to deck him.

“I think I get it,” he murmurs instead, carding his fingers through Zuko’s ponytail, low-key delighted to find it’s as silky as it looks. “My sister’s probably going to get two Olympic medals, and a lot of her friends are _my_ friends too, and I’m at a pretty serious gym, and some days it’s like I can’t turn around without hitting a world champion. And I’m not trying to brag. I’m just saying I get it’s like...a different world up there.”

Zuko nods into his shirt.

“And they can do all these cool things,” Sokka continues, “and I can’t. Maybe I could’ve if I set my mind to it, but honestly? It’s just not me. And yeah, sometimes I feel left out.”

(Sometimes, but not now, as Zuko folds himself into Sokka even more snugly.)

“It’s not easy, always being with people who are so _terrifyingly_ _awesome_ at what they do,” Sokka says, reaching down to his chin and tipping his face up, soft as he can. “All you Olympians have magic powers that I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’m not good at my stuff.”

“You are good.” Zuko looks up at him with a little wonder. “You learn fast, you’re a way better student than I was at your level.”

“Helps that I had the world’s best teacher.”

Zuko smiles and then buries his head back down with another ominous sniffle, and Sokka just holds him for a minute. Then out of the corner of his eye, he spots a neon light in the darkness- white, orange, green and red.

“Zuko?” he ventures. “I know what’ll fix you right up.”

/

In Sokka’s expert opinion, it is physically impossible to be sad when faced with an array of perfectly fried meats, like those at the front of any 7-11 in Tokyo. As predicted, Zuko stops sniffling long enough to order some fried chicken in simple, sweet Japanese.

“That was perfect,” Sokka whispers to him after ordering his own dinner’s worth of cutlets. For one fleeting instant, Zuko beams in gratitude.

When they leave, the rain’s stopped, and they walk in silence, trailing crumbs down the city streets. Sokka’s not sure where they’re going, or who’s following who. He doesn’t much care.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says, once he’s finished his chicken and responsibly disposed of the wrapper. “I shouldn’t have hid who I was from you. It was dishonorable of me.”

Sokka lets himself indulge in the littlest giggle at “dishonorable,” because again, what historical epic did this man step out of. Then he steals a glance at Zuko. He looks less miserable now. More exhausted, like he’s been wiped clean.

“You wouldn’t have scared me off, you know,” Sokka offers shyly. “If you told me. Hell, _Katara_ hasn’t managed to get rid of me in twenty years, and she’s much scarier than you.”

“...I still don’t get why you race her.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said you challenge her to a swimming race every day. If you know you’re going to lose…” He shrugs, curling in on himself. “Why would you try in the first place?”

“Because she’s cool? And I like being with her, and it’s inspiring to watch her go, and sometimes I even learn things. More or less the same reasons I kept coming back to get wrecked by you.” Sokka reaches out to brush away a lock of wet black hair where the rain’s glued it to Zuko’s forehead. “This may sound like an alien concept, but sometimes there are better things than winning.”

Zuko gives him a hilariously skeptical look.

“Though winning’s pretty cool,” he admits. “Are you honestly telling me it wasn’t a little cool to win all those duels today?”

“Would you believe for a second there I thought I’d win gold?”

Zuko’s mouth twists up into a smirk, small, knowing and bitter.

“I can’t blame you,” Sokka says helplessly. “You got really close.”

“If I had…” He shakes his head and takes a deep breath, holding it. “Okay, so my father runs this studio back home. He’s got an army’s worth of coaches for everything under the sun, and...one of them specializes in teaching foil at the junior level.”

Sokka nods, listening closely though he’s not sure where this is going.

“And he’s really intense, and I, um, I could take it.”

“Wait,” Sokka interrupts. “Intense how?”

“Um.” He chooses his words with effort, frowning. “He makes his students train really, really hard? And it’s not like that’s totally a bad thing, some kids can handle that. Some kids _need_ that, I know I did. But there’s also a lot of overuse injuries.”

“Oh.”

“And breakdowns.”

“Sounds like a nice guy,” Sokka mutters.

“So I could take it,” Zuko says. “And I get his point, maybe you have to sacrifice a bunch of kids to make one a star. But...they were _kids._ And a couple months back, I broke up one of his practices because there was this fourteen-year-old and I _heard_ her tear something and he was trying to make her keep going.”

“Something? Like...she tore her armor?”

“No.”

Sokka winces. 

Zuko charges on: “Father said if I couldn’t handle the heat, then he was kicking me out of the kitchen, just as soon as the Olympics were over. And...I don’t know, for a second I thought he’d un-exile me if I just got gold. If only because it’s good, having winners associated with the brand.”

“So let me get this right,” Sokka deadpans. “Your dad kicked you out of his gym for protecting literal children.”

“No,” Zuko says with a violent shake of his head. “No, I can’t afford my own coach back home, he basically kicked me out of the _country._ Or out of fencing, one or the other.”

“But- but…” Sokka stammers, reduced to incoherence. “But what does he expect you to _do?”_

Zuko shrugs, like this isn’t a big deal. A life-changing, world-ending deal. “My uncle lives in Tokyo, and he’s got a spare room. And he’s an old friend of Piandao’s. I don’t know what the hell kind of sob story he spun, but Piandao called me up and offered to train me for free.”

Sokka straight-up stops walking, nearly dropping his last half-eaten cutlet in surprise. “You’re training with Piandao?”

“I don’t get it either.” Zuko lifts one hand to rub the back of his neck, visibly unsure. “I mean, he’s been retired forever, since his fourth medal, and I really have no idea what Uncle told him-“

“You’re training with Piandao,” Sokka repeats.

“...Yeah?”

“You’re going to live in Tokyo.”

Zuko’s face falls. 

“Yeah,” he confirms quietly. “Sorry, I’m not going to be anywhere near Canada in the near future if you were hoping-“

 _“I_ live in Tokyo.”

“You what?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, just barely reeling in an ecstatic laugh that’d cause a noise complaint, “yeah, I’m on this teaching contract, I’m staying in Japan for the foreseeable future. So. You know...”

Zuko stares at him, eyes incandescent with slow-dawning hope. “I thought you were just one of Piandao’s international guests, at the gym.”

“No, that’s my gym, I thought _you_ were a guest!”

“No! I mean, yes, I'm new to the place, but I’m…”

“Staying,” Sokka finishes, soft with awe.

He shoves his last bit of cutlet in his mouth, chews, and swallows rapidly. Then, buoyed by sudden boldness, by the awareness that it’s the Olympics and anything can happen, he lifts his hands up to Zuko’s cheeks.

Waits.

In a sudden burst of motion, Zuko leaps up onto his tip-toes and lunges. Their noses bump together, and Sokka laughs against his lips and tips his head just so and tries again.

(He’s a fast learner, after all.)

It’s a chaste kiss- just the light press of lips- yet Sokka’s heart flutters like he just finished a marathon. Even when it’s over, Zuko doesn’t quite pull away. He just rests their foreheads together, breathing hard as Sokka grins dopily.

After a long debate within himself Sokka slides his hands down Zuko’s neck, to the back of his shirt collar. As he predicted, his fingers find a strand of ribbon.

“Can I?” he murmurs, stroking the skin on Zuko’s nape.

“If you want,” comes the whispered reply.

And so, with every ounce of tenderness he possesses, Sokka reaches below Zuko’s collar. He feels for the bronze medal hidden below his shirt, like some secret mark of shame. Careful not to hurt it or him, Sokka fishes it out, the metal heavy in his hand, and lowers it. Lets it thump against Zuko’s chest, visible to the world, right where it belongs.

“It’s really special.”

“Someone gets it every four years,” Zuko demurs. “And if you count all the disciplines there are literally hundreds of these floating around Tokyo right now-“

“It’s the most special thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Zuko arches an eyebrow. “More than the silver medal?”

He shrugs. “Silver’s too cold for you. I’d pick bronze any day. To go with your eyes.”

He says it with the cheesiest smile, but the line makes _Zuko_ smile. Mission accomplished.

“Do you have anywhere to be tonight?” Sokka asks, still playing with the medal’s pretty pink-and-blue ribbon. “Do you need to go party with your uncle, or see a doctor for your hand or anything?”

He shakes his head. “No, why?”

“Well, it occurs to me-“ Sokka cocks his head to the side and clings for dear life to his poker face- “that this medal would be _perfect,_ if we just set it off to its best advantage.”

Curious, Zuko tips his own head. “How would you do that?”

“Well, I’d have to inspect it up close. And maybe let your hair down to frame it.”

“Mm-hmm,” hums Zuko, playing along.

“And of course we can’t have any distractions, so we have to get rid of all these clothes.”

Zuko pauses for one second and then explodes giggling. “You did _not_ just say that.”

“I’m sorry,” Sokka says with all the mischief he can manage, “was that wrong of me? Is it dishonorable to imply alternate uses for an Olympic medal?”

“The most dishonorable,” he teases.

“Then I’ve lost all my honor,” Sokka says, leaning in for another kiss. “But I don’t mind. You can have it.”

/

There are many upsides to confessing your love in the nighttime rain. Melodrama, for one. Shimmering silver streets and misty mood lighting, plus an excuse to hold onto each other extra-tightly in the chill. It’s a choice of setting that makes for excellent memories, for a story to relate to family and friends and maybe children, one day.

Turns out there are downsides to confessing your love in the nighttime rain.

“Ahhhh-“ Sokka grabs desperately at the tissue Zuko hands him just in time, thanks to his impeccable Olympic reflexes- “choo!”

/

Zuko came down from the adrenaline and immediately came down with a nasty head cold. Shored up by hot ramen and immune-booster pills, Sokka held out a couple days longer, just long enough to see Katara win silver for individual diving. Then he immediately succumbed to the exact same plague.

On the 6th, he donates his ticket for the walking final to Aang. He’d tried offering it to Katara and Dad too, but Aang displayed the most enthusiasm- seriously, the guy’s excited about everything, he makes _Sokka_ look like the paragon of calm. Everyone else felt bad about depriving him, and thus he got the ticket. Sokka sees his grin and doesn’t feel the slightest bit bad. It helps that he’s got something else important to take care of, right at the same time.

/

Having given up his dreams of cheering on the world’s best power-walkers, Sokka bundles up on Iroh’s couch, with a full pot of green tea and a brand-new boyfriend.

(Technically he’s brand-new. But Sokka looks at Zuko, curled up in his lap like he was made for it, and feels like he’s always known him.)

“Fair warning,” Zuko says, glancing back at Sokka, “pentathlon’s kind of boring.”

Sokka shrugs it off. “Nobody was ever gonna beat fencing for sheer aesthetics.”

That wins him a quick smile, but then Zuko turns serious again. “Honestly, if you don’t want to watch it, feel free to duck out at any time.”

“Will do.” Sokka drops a quick kiss on his nose and redirects his focus to the event, fully intending to watch all six hours of the coverage for women’s pentathlon. He has done his research. He has _opinions._

(One opinion is that Azula’s confidence is actually pretty well-founded. That’s still no excuse for attending your brother’s Olympic event and _cheering on the other side.)_

“It’s probably good I got sick,” Zuko reflects. “Azula wanted Mai there, now she’s got a free ticket.”

Oh, yeah- Zuko’s just casually friends with Mai Akanishi. He might be casually _exes_ with Mai Akanishi, going by how mortified he got when Sokka first mentioned her, but when asked point-blank, Zuko said there’s nothing romantic going on between them. Sokka hasn’t met her yet, he’s not sure he ever will, but he’s already practicing not asking her for an autograph.

(He poured all his willpower into not asking Zuko for his autograph and then gave up within hours. When he finally got the words out, Zuko tugged him into a particularly theatrical kiss, signed the Olympic T-shirt Sokka was wearing at the time, and then signed ten pieces of paper and stuffed them in his hands, just in case.)

“Is it terrible,” Zuko mumbles, “that I hope Azula wins silver?”

Sokka runs a hand through Zuko’s hair, sighing. “It’s sad. Not ‘sad’ as in ‘pathetic,” more like…’tragic.’ In the non-sarcastic sense? If that makes sense?”

Zuko turns his head, twisting all the way around so they’re eye to eye. “I’m glad you’re watching it with me. I know you wanted to see the walking final, and I just wanted to. To let you know I appreciate it.”

There’s a beep from the screen, and he whips back around, his unjustly soft ponytail bopping Sokka’s nose. Azula dives into the pool at the speed of lightning, pulling ahead of her competitors within the first lap. 

As she widens her lead, Sokka rubs comforting patterns up and down Zuko’s shoulders and back. He presses his fingers into the planes of solid muscle. Into Zuko’s left arm- overworked even before Feng split the hand, the muscles and tendons so perpetually sore he defaults to his right arm for nearly everything off the strip. Sokka presses his fingers into the places where Zuko carries two decades’ worth of tension.

“Her breath control’s on point so far,” Zuko comments quietly, loosening a little at his touch. “Even if she doesn’t come in on top here, she’s got so many other chances to rack up points, later today.”

He says little else- just a remark that her form’s gotten tighter and more aerodynamic than the last time he watched her practice. There’s no sniping. No vitriol.

When she finishes at the head of her group, Zuko lets out a long breath and sinks backwards. At first Sokka mistakes it for a slump of defeat, but no- Zuko’s just letting him carry some of his weight.

Sokka can do that.

Zuko’s warm and solid, back pressed to Sokka’s chest, and Sokka adjusts easily to his new load. He sinks backwards too. Lets Iroh’s comfy cushions hold them both up for a while.

(He’s no Olympian- no foils or springboards or trampolines for him. Still he can’t help feeling he’s won these Games, in every way that matters.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. Kudos and comments are appreciated <3 
> 
> If you want to show the artist some love, here's [this chapter's art](https://6reeze.tumblr.com/post/644021122081456128/previously) on their tumblr.
> 
> If you'd like to see more Zukka from me, may I suggest my canon-divergent [ghost Zuko fic?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28206249/chapters/69118440) It's heavy on the laughs, the feels, and that classic Zukka chaos.
> 
> Finally, I and many other ATLA creators signed up for this year's Fandom Trumps Hate charity auction, which is currently going on! If you want to find out more, you can check out the [main FTH page.](https://fandomtrumpshate.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Trivia: in my head, this AU’s Ty Lee is an award-winning rhythmic gymnast.


End file.
